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giggles, then trumpets through her nose.
    I wonder if it will happen in her sleep. Or if she will cry. If there will
be some kind nurse who gives her something for the pain. I envision my child
dying, while she is happy and laughing two feet behind me.
    “Giraffe say?” Kate asks. “Giraffe?”
    Her voice, it's so full of the future. “Giraffes don't say
anything,” I answer.
    “Why?”
    “Because that's how they're born,” I tell her, and then my throat
swells shut.
    The phone rings just as I come in from the neighbor's house, having arranged
for her to take care of Jesse while we take care of Kate. We have no protocol
for this situation. Our only baby-sitters are still in high school; all four
grandparents are deceased; we've never dealt with day care providers—taking
care of the children is my job. By the time I come into the kitchen, Brian is
well into conversation with the caller. The phone cord is wrapped around his
knees, an umbilicus. “Yeah,” he says, “hard to believe. I
haven't made it into a single game this season… no point, now that they've
traded him.” His eyes meet mine as I put on the kettle for tea. “Oh,
Sara's great. And the kids, uh-huh, they're fine. Right. You give my best to
Lucy. Thanks for calling, Don.” He hangs up. “Don Thurman,” he
explains. “From the fire academy, remember? Nice guy.”

My Sister's Keeper
    As he stares at me, the genial smile sloughs off his face. The teakettle
starts to whistle, but neither of us makes a motion to move it off the burner.
I look at Brian, cross my arms.
    “I couldn't,” he says quietly. “Sara, I just couldn't.”
    In bed that night, Brian is an obelisk, another shape breaking the darkness.
Although we have not spoken for hours, I know that he is every bit as awake as
I am.
    This is happening to us because I yelled at Jesse last week, yesterday,
moments ago. This is happening because I didn't buy Kate the M&Ms she
wanted at the grocery store. This is happening because once, for a split
second, I wondered what my life would have been like if I'd never had children.
This is happening because I did not realize how good I have it.
    “Do you think we did it to her?” Brian asks.
    “Did it to her?” I turn to him. “How?”
    “Like, our genes. You know.”
    I don't respond.
    “Providence Hospital doesn't know anything,” he says fiercely.
“Do you remember when the chief's son broke his left arm, and they put a
cast on the right one?”
    I stare at the ceiling again. “Just so you know,” I say, more
loudly than I've intended, “I'm not going to let Kate die.”
    There is an awful sound beside me—an animal wounded, a drowning gasp. Then
Brian presses his face against my shoulder, sobs into my skin. He wraps his
arms around me and holds on as if he's losing his balance. “I'm not,”
I repeat, but even to myself, it sounds like I am trying too hard.
     
    BRIAN
    FOR EVERY NINETEEN DEGREES HOTTER a fire burns, it doubles in size.
    This is what I am thinking while I watch sparks shoot out of the incinerator
chimney, a thousand new stars. The dean of Brown University's medical school
wrings his hands beside me. In my heavy coat, I am sweating.
    We've brought an engine, a ladder, and a rescue truck. We have assessed all
four sides of the building. We've confirmed that no one is inside. Well, except
for the body that got stuck in the incinerator, and caused this.
    “He was a large man,” the dean says. 'This is what we always do
with the subjects when the anatomy classes are through."
    “Hey, Cap,” Paulie yells. Today, he is my main pump operator.
“Red's got the hydrant dressed. You want me to charge a line?”
    I am not certain, yet, that I will take a hose up. This furnace was designed
to consume remains at 1,600 degrees Fahrenheit. There is fire above and below
the body.
    “Well?” the dean says. “Aren't you going to do
something?” It is the biggest mistake rookies make: the assumption that
fighting a fire means