It is like a long tunnel, the strange, shallow light of the hospital hallway shining against all the stainless steel they always put around those kinds of places. The steel shines a dark, tunnelish light. A feeling of objectivity they want to impart to you. Like, your baby has died. Objectively. I read once that they change a person from a person to a patient by asking them to fill out all that intake paperwork. On the paperwork, you can't write, under Symptoms, bone-splitting sorrow. Crying that won't stop. And anyway, I didn't fill out any paperwork when I came in because I was screaming my face off. So when was I converted to a person whose baby was dead. Is what I've been wondering. We all came to the hospital and briefly scandalized the nurse, who told me, You have a large group of visitors—what should I tell them? She leaned down and whispered, You don't have to see anyone you don't want to, honey. Her breasts pressing onto my shoulder. The starched uniform and the smell of detergent near my face. I did see my mother though. Alone and small looking. Straight mouth trying to control my perception of her shock. Trying to control her inevitable I-told-you-so. A psychiatrist told her we should set up my apartment again. Not healthy for me to stay at her house. Long stretches in which we say nothing to each other. She writes. Something to do with her hands, besides wringing them. I could stay here for the rest of my life, I'm so tired. And really, there's no one out there worth seeing. No one to come close to, or—no one who can get close enough.