“George pulled my hand away and inspected the wound. He frowned. "Sarah, honey, what happened?"I cleared my throat. "I fell on some barecue prongs.”

“I pull away, you pull me back, you grab my hand and wrap me around. What you did not know is—– my heart is my hand.”

“Hey,” he pulled away and put his hand on my face. “What are you thinking about?”“Your butt,” I admitted.”

“I lifted my hand and pulled the blue paper cap back a little, until a piece of my red fell out, then I reached my hand back inside the case. I slid my finger under some tubes and into her tiny purple hand. And just like that, like she had known it was me all along, she squeezed it.”

“I wish for my child to have a mind as stark and wild as the winter, a spirit as clear and fine as my window, and a heart as red and open as my wounded hand.”

“I pulled away. He stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “Wait,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking.”“What?”“It’s written all over your face.” He pushed a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”