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E veryone is here now. Connor, her father, Esther. Even Iris. Flora cannot see her, but her bones know: they ache and pulse with longing for the tiny baby.

Something is about to happen. There is a sense of ceremony in the room. The mechanical bed buzzes again, and machines beep and whir around her. She feels as if she is at the end of a very long tunnel.

The doctor speaks. Flora hears every few words. Medically induced coma… respiratory insult… intubation… excision… grafting…

Flora remembers her childhood, sneaking into her parents’ room to watch television. She would situate herself on the pink carpet of their floor and turn the volume down low. One time, her mother found her. Flora thought she’d be mad, but her mom smiled. Then she settled in next to Flora and unwrapped a handful of caramel candies for them to share.

Flora is there, sitting in that room, leaning against her mother’s purple bathrobe that smells of sunflowers, feeling the soft carpet on her unburnt skin, when the doctor puts her under.