The smell of sawdust, damp earth, and old motor oil came with him.

“Arthur,” I whispered.

My throat felt like it was coated in dry sand.

He pulled off his gloves with his teeth and tossed them onto the rug.

He laid a thick, calloused hand against my forehead, his skin cool against my fever.

“You’re burning up, girl,” he said, his voice deep and steady.

But his eyes did not stay on me.

They immediately shifted to the small, limp bundle wrapped in my arms.

Rowan was completely silent.

His tiny chest rose and fell in short, shallow flutters.

It looked like the rapid heartbeat of a trapped bird.

Arthur gently pulled the blue flannel receiving blanket away from Rowan’s face.

He touched the side of Rowan’s neck with two thick fingers, waiting.

“How long has he been breathing like this?” Arthur asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“I don’t know,” I croaked, tears spilling over my temples. “A few hours. He won’t wake up to nurse.”

Arthur pressed the back of his hand to Rowan’s tiny, flushed cheek.

His jaw tightened.