Annabelle

The antiseptic smell of the hospital has become almost comforting after three days. I've memorized the patterns of the ceiling tiles, counted the flowers on the wallpaper border, and learned every squeak in the vinyl chair beside Ashlynn's bed. As I watch her small chest rise and fall in sleep, I can hardly believe we're finally going home today.

"Her fever's been normal for twenty-four hours now," the pediatrician says, flipping through her chart. "The ...