“I know, Marissa,” he said, his voice low and steady. “We are going to get him help right now.”

His old Ford F-150 sat idling in the driveway, the engine rumbling like a low-frequency hum in my chest.

He had left the passenger door wide open.

Arthur leaned in, gently sliding me onto the worn vinyl bench seat.

A sharp, white-hot pain sliced through my lower abdomen as my weight settled onto the cushion.

I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut, but I refused to let go of Rowan.

“Easy now,” Arthur said, reaching over to pull the seatbelt across both of us.

“No, don’t buckle him under the strap,” I said, my panic rising. “I’ll hold him.”

“The strap goes behind you, Marissa,” Arthur said, his hands moving quickly and efficiently. “I am looping it so you are secure, but the baby is free in your arms.”

He clicked the buckle into place, then reached down to touch Rowan’s tiny forehead with the back of his rough hand.

“His skin is cool,” Arthur muttered, his brow furrowing deeper. “And he is working too hard to get air.”