Thanksgiving Week

"Boss, you look like shit. Go get some sleep."

I turned away from my computer screen to look at Jessica, my now-18-year-old assistant, as she leaned against the doorway of my Pack House treatment room. These last two months had not been easy on her either. Eleven times I had delivered premature babies under duress, and eleven times she had taken the tiny infants to the warm, oxygenated bed.

And eleven times the baby was buried with the mother.

I told her it wasn't her fault, but it was her job and she took it hard. "You too. The supplies don't need to be sorted again."

She turned...