Then I heard Noah. Not a normal cry. A weak, broken sound coming from behind the bedroom door.
I ran down the hallway immediately.
The smell hit me before I even reached the bed: sour milk, sweat, stale diapers, blood, and overheated air trapped inside the closed room. Emily lay motionless on one side of the mattress while Noah rested beside her wrapped in a dirty blanket.
The room felt suffocatingly hot.
The windows were sealed shut, the fan was off, and Emily’s face looked gray in the early morning light. One of her hands dangled weakly off the bed as though she tried pulling herself upright and failed.
When I touched Noah’s forehead, heat exploded against my palm.
He barely reacted when I lifted him. Emily was burning with fever too, but she wouldn’t wake up no matter how hard I shook her shoulder.
I screamed for my mother.
