Mrs. Henderson slowly swept the blonde strands behind Chloe’s ear.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when I returned to Chloe’s hospital room.

The harsh fluorescent lights had been dimmed to a soft, warm amber. The mechanical ventilator had been wheeled out. The only sound was the gentle, rhythmic hum of the monitor tracking her resting pulse: 72 beats per minute. Perfect. Normal.

I pulled the vinyl armchair right up to the edge of the mattress and gently gathered her small, warm hand in both of mine.

Her blonde hair was clean, brushed back from her forehead. The terrible, crawling black fracture was gone. In its place was a neat, clean surgical dressing, white and pristine against her throat.

Her small fingers twitched.

I leaned in, holding my breath.

Chloe’s eyelashes fluttered open. Her big blue eyes, clear and free of the feverish fog, blinked against the morning light.

She looked at the ceiling, then turned her head slowly on the pillow until her gaze met mine.

“Mommy?” she rasped, her voice soft, but clear. Real.

“I’m here, baby,” I choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling down my cheeks—not of panic, but of pure, overwhelming gratitude. “Mommy’s right here.”

Chloe brought her small hand up, gingerly touching the bandage on her neck.

“The black bug...” she whispered.

“It’s gone,” I told her, kissing her knuckles over and over. “The doctors took it away. It can never, ever hurt you again.”

Chloe was quiet for a long moment. She looked toward the bedside table, where a clean plastic cup of cold water sat next to a cup of vanilla ice cream that the recovery nurse had left for her.

She swallowed.

Her eyes went wide with sudden wonder.

“Mommy,” she gasped, a tiny smile curling the corners of her lips. “It doesn't hurt.”

“No, baby. It doesn't hurt.”

“Can I have the ice cream?”