It was raining outside.
The children's hospital was on the south side of the city.
Six miles from here.
She weighed barely four pounds the day she was born. She spent two weeks in an incubator.
The first time she called me Mama, I cried the whole night.
She loved the egg custard I made. Every time, she'd lick the bowl clean, then tilt her little head up and grin at me.
She was three years old. She hadn't even gotten a real chance to see the world.
The hospital lights appeared at the far edge of my vision.
When I burst through the emergency hall doors, my legs gave out and I collapsed on the floor. The soles of my feet were nothing but blood.
The ward was on the third floor.
I gripped the stairwell railing and dragged myself up one flight at a time.
At the end of the corridor, the red light above the resuscitation room went dark.
A doctor walked out, pulled down his mask. His face was hollow with exhaustion.
"Family?"
"We did everything we could."
A nurse lifted the corner of the white sheet for me to confirm.
Carissa's face was so small. So pale. Her lips were purple.
She looked like she was sleeping, quiet and still.
But her hand was cold.
I dropped to my knees and pressed her hand against my cheek.