In my arms, the baby goes limp, then tonic, back arched stiff. I shriek her panicked name while her limbs coil and jerk and her lips blanch dusty blue. She emits an unfamiliar sound, unconscious groan of the body unnerved— then awakes sluggishly, face still gray but warm to the touch. At the hospital, I examine the speckled tile floor while the doctor says normal to stop breathing for up to 20 seconds and outgrow. He reports no long-term deficit— as though he could possibly know. As though anyone could know who we would have been. Imagine: a world in which your sister caught an earlier train and never met her rapist. If there are infinite universes, there is one in which my daughter never turns blue. Another in which she never wakes up. Of course, this is the nonsense rule of infinity, which could drive anyone to madness. The doctor's coat pocket is blotted with ink. Here in triage, the baby coos and stands tall in the crib. The fever breaks. I am told her prognosis is excellent.