She screams when they take her temperature, when they force her body into a harness for a chest x-ray, when I hold the nebulizer mask over her face. Eventually, eyes closed against the medicated steam, she falls asleep in my arms, her breathing still labored. I am sitting on the urgent care examining table, and she is warm and heavy against me. I wait to hear whether or not she will need to be admitted to the hospital overnight, and I remember losing one child and the long months I feared I might never hold this one either.