**Part 3**
Rain poured relentlessly that Saturday.
Jamie had joined us for dinner, and by nine that evening, the storm had grown worse.
I glanced through the window.
“You’re not taking the bus home in this.”
“I’m okay.”
“Guest room.”
Claire didn’t object, but her entire body became rigid.
At 2:13 a.m., a piercing scream came through the baby monitor.
I was already climbing out of bed before I was fully awake.
Sophie had never screamed like that.
Claire seized my arm.
Then the screaming abruptly stopped.
We heard rustling.
Then a heavy thud.
We raced barefoot down the hallway.
The nursery door stood partly open. Claire pushed past me.
“Jamie! Get away from her!”
I stopped at the entrance.
Sophie’s crib was empty.
Jamie knelt on the floor, with Sophie lying on the rug directly before him, frighteningly silent.
His hands trembled.
Something small was tightly clenched inside one fist.
Claire covered her mouth.
“Oh my God…”
I could almost see her thoughts connecting: the spilled soup, the bandages, Jamie—and now our daughter lying on the floor.
“What did you do?!”
She lunged toward Sophie.
“Don’t pick her up yet!”
Jamie’s voice rang sharply through the nursery.
Claire stopped.
So did I.
“Jamie,” I said. “What happened?”
He raised his head. His hands continued trembling, yet his voice remained steady.
“Call 911.”
I reached for my phone.
As I gave the dispatcher our address, I watched my brother do something I’d never witnessed before.
He quietly talked himself through each action, just as he did when following recipes.
“Face down. Five hits. Check mouth.”
He wasn’t panicking. He followed each step carefully, as though he’d practiced it countless times.
Then Sophie coughed.
It was a small, wet, terrible sound.
She drew a breath.
And then she began crying.
I’d never heard a more beautiful sound.
Paramedics arrived within minutes. One knelt beside Sophie.
“What was she choking on?”
Jamie glanced at the fist he’d kept closed throughout the ordeal.
Slowly, he unfolded his fingers.
A tiny wooden bead rested in his palm.
*P.*
Claire stared at it before looking toward the crib rail, where a broken clip dangled.
*S-O-_-H-I-E.*
She had made that clip herself.
I suddenly remembered seeing it before.
A week after Sophie came home, I’d found Claire sitting on the couch, threading wooden beads onto a clip.
Together, the beads spelled *S-O-P-H-I-E*.
“Isn’t she a little young for that? Loose beads shouldn’t go near the crib.”
“It’s a pacifier clip, not a necklace. I’ll hang it on the crib rail.”
I’d dropped the subject.
At the hospital, the doctor confirmed what had happened. A wooden bead had detached from the clip, and Sophie had put it into her mouth.
“She’s going to be fine,” he said. “Whoever got to her first did exactly what needed to be done.”
Then he turned toward Jamie.
“Where did you learn infant first aid?”
“My class.”
I stared at my brother.
“Your class?”
“Tuesday and Thursday. Infant CPR.” He rubbed his neck. “That’s why I got the doll. I practice on it.”
Suddenly, the pieces fit together.
The hidden doll. The mysterious classes. His repeated insistence that it was a surprise.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want anyone laugh.”
He looked at Claire before continuing.
“You said I’m not safe.”
She opened her mouth but couldn’t speak.
“So I learn to be safe.”
He swallowed nervously.
“I thought maybe then you let me hold Sophie.”
Claire’s expression crumpled.
“You told me,” she whispered, turning toward me. “You told me about the beads, and I…”
She couldn’t finish her sentence.
For years, she’d defined my brother by one terrible accident.
Yet tonight, Jamie had been the only one among us who knew what to do.
“A few minutes later,” the doctor said, “and we’d be having a very different conversation.”
Then he left us alone.
Claire sat beside Jamie.
For a long while, neither spoke.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered.
Jamie turned toward her.
“I was wrong about you.”
He didn’t tell her everything was fine.
Instead, he asked one question.
“Is Sophie okay?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her?”
A nurse guided us down the hallway to Sophie’s room.
Jamie lingered at the entrance, just as he’d learned to do.
He raised his hand and tapped twice on the doorframe.
Then he waited.
Claire shifted Sophie into one arm.
With her free hand, she knocked twice against the metal bed rail.
“Jamie-Bamie,” Claire said. “Hold out your arms.”
“…Me?”
She nodded.
Jamie lifted his arms with extreme care, as though they might break.
Claire gently placed Sophie in them.
“Am I doing it right?”
“You’re doing fine.”
I took out my phone.
“What are you doing?” Jamie asked.
“Taking a picture.”
He glanced nervously toward Claire, expecting her to make him step away again.
Instead, she sat down beside him and leaned closer.
I photographed my family.
And this time, nobody asked for another picture.
