Zane didn't remember the walk from Willow's recovery room to the NICU. Later, when he replayed the night in his mind, all he could piece together were fragments—the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, the way the hallway lights buzzed in uneven intervals, the smell of antiseptic thick enough to coat the inside of his mouth. A nurse had said she would take him to see the baby, and he had followed without thinking, without breathing, without fully inhabiting his own body. He moved like someone pulled by a hook in the center of his chest.
The double doors opened with a soft hiss. Warm air spilled out, humid and almost sweet, threaded with milk and sanitizer and something faintly metallic. The nurse stepped through first and gestured for him to follow. "Only two at a time," she whispered. "You're on her approved list."
