Nicholas vibrates on my lap at five in the morning. At five-thirty in the morning. At six. He shivers, then jolts and tries to lick his sutures. Shivers, then jolts. I hold fast around his chest and wait for the struggle to go back to vibrate. Every time we go to the animal hospital, every time we call, they say he's doing well, and we try to believe this is all just a part of healing. Somewhere between being awake at three and five, I dreamed of birthday cake. He jolts, then shivers. Through the open window, the world vibrates with rain.