The room is cold, and your wife is crying. And smiling. There's a speck of blood on your cheek that you notice later, one drop, dried brown, from the fibrous cord. She wriggles in a shallow plastic box, cleaned & approved. A striped hat, a diaper, a warm blanket, and an ankle bracelet with a magnet in it, connecting her to only the two of you. She weighs almost nothing. Comically small in the new car seat. There's a room at home decked out for her, a place that'll make us more than a couple. Now, a family.