My chest tightened immediately.
Mom opened her eyes quickly when she saw me.
“Ethan?” she asked in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?”
I ignored the question.
“Where’s Emily?”
“She’s in the bedroom,” Mom answered while rubbing her eyes. “Your son cried all night, so she’s probably sleeping.”
Then I heard Noah cry. Except it barely sounded like crying anymore. It sounded weak. Broken. Like he did not have enough strength left to scream properly.
I ran down the hallway and shoved open the bedroom door.
The smell hit me first.
Sweat. Sour milk. Dirty diapers. Stale heat trapped inside a room with sealed windows and no fan running.
Emily lay motionless on one side of the bed with her hair stuck to her forehead and one arm hanging off the mattress as though she had tried to pull herself up before collapsing. Her shirt was soaked, her lips looked cracked, and her skin had taken on an alarming gray tone.
