A single drop of water incomprehensibly dropped into water and trills across the empty space. An echoing quiet, yet deceiving. Like wind constantly buffeting the mouth of a stone cave I realize I hear a constant hum. The ventilation system. I am brought back to those rooms 100, 200, 300, 400, 500 nights. Every night constant sounds, a little fridge ticking on and off, the beeps of the heart rate monitor, the alarm of air in the line, the regular clicking of the syringe on the IV pump. And always, that constant hum of ventilation, strangely bringing comfort, making space for sleep, a buffer against the monotony and the terror of cancer treatment and my little girl laying small in that mechanical bed, rising and falling of her chest. I tried to curl myself into sleep, to pretend that pullout couch really is a bed, knowing that tears can slice into sleep and always, always there are the labs that will await me in the morning.