I try to decode the doctor's words across a paper curtain. She wishes I was not awake. Uterine window—viscera stretched so thin they become transparent, panes of terrarium glass over the baby, her feet already descended. Dehiscence. My husband ghostly blue in his polypropylene gown. Too late to stop, not late enough to know. At home, we've already hung six watercolor marsh-birds above the crib. The doctor braces one leg against the metal table while I retch into a kidney basin. My daughter emerges the color of dried lavender and quiet into a flurry of plastic bulbs. And then, her supernatural cry. My husband rushes her against my numbed chest, her head still covered in wet strings, while the doctor cuts out my fallopian tubes.