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When it became certain that he was going to die, not long after his emergency baptism with water from the communal sink, our N.I.C.U. nurse, bopping back and forth on the soles of her Hokas, asked if we’d prefer to move Ignatius and his medical equipment into a private room. She was kind and capable. She was also—we agreed later, sharing grimaces—far too peppy. Smiling and humming, she busied about the room, connecting cords into beeping boxes to keep Iggy’s soul tethered to this realm while we said goodbye. As she untangled and unwound, knelt and popped up again, she asked us what we needed: “Do you want a different blanket for him? We have some nice ones for occasions like this.” Weeks earlier, back at home, I had unwrapped, washed, and folded dozens of swaddle blankets in matching sets—gifts from the twins’ Noah’s Ark–themed baby shower (“two by two”). But the matching blankets were at home, in their matching drawers, beside their matching wooden cribs. I looked at her and couldn’t say anything. I didn’t care about a baby blanket. My baby was dying.