I didn’t even drop my bags, I just bolted toward the bedroom with my heart hammering against my ribs.
Amy was sprawled out on the bed, unconscious, her nightgown stained and her hair a matted, tangled mess of knots.
Beside her, little Sam was wrapped in a grimy, stiff blanket, his skin flushed a terrifying red with a fever that made him tremble, crying without even enough moisture to form tears.
“Amy, wake up, please!”
I shook her shoulders, but she didn’t even stir, her body limp and unresponsive.
I touched my son, and the feeling of his burning, dry skin pierced through me like a physical wound.
His lips were cracked, his diaper was soaked and neglected, and there were angry, red marks around his neck.
I let out a raw, guttural scream that probably woke up the entire floor.
My mother shuffled into the doorway, yawning and putting on a fake, startled expression.
“What in the world is happening in here, Mark?”
“What is happening?” I roared, turning on her with eyes that I knew looked insane. “I am the one asking you that question!”
Karen sauntered into the room, looking at me with a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
“You really need to stop being so incredibly dramatic, Mark, because babies cry and new mothers need to sleep, and you’re coming in here causing a massive scene over nothing.”
I looked from their pile of cozy blankets and junk food to my wife’s split, bleeding lips and my son’s fragile, burning frame.
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