Maxine burned in Mike’s arms, her skin too hot, her body frighteningly still. She didn’t cry. That was the worst part. Babies cried when something was wrong. Maxine only whimpered once, a thin sound that faded as quickly as it came, her head heavy against his chest while Carrie fumbled for the thermometer with shaking hands.
The number blinked back at them, impossibly high. Carrie swore under her breath. Mike was already moving—keys, shoes, the diaper bag knocked over in his haste. His thoughts chased each other in tight circles: what she’d eaten, how long she’d slept, whether he’d missed something obvious. She had been fine yesterday. Laughing. Reaching for him.
Outside, the night was eerily calm as they rushed toward the car. Maxine’s breathing was shallow, uneven. Mike pressed his forehead to hers for half a second, whispering her name like it might anchor her. Somewhere between the apartment and the hospital, a thought took hold that made his chest tighten with dread: this hadn’t come out of nowhere. Something had been happening to their daughter—and they were only just beginning to see it.