And we don’t hold the alive baby, not yet, afraid of that kind of power, our stomachs stinging with the fear of it, that kind of responsibility, afraid of the mewling in the alive baby’s throat. We think of the baby dolls we had as children (barely days ago we were still children) that would cry if you squeezed them hard enough, and how we grew tired of the squeezing and threw them on the ground instead, tromping on their little doll bellies till the crying sound became a slow wheeze.