He closed my door with a solid, metallic thud that vibrated through the frame.

He jogged around the front of the hood, his limp barely noticeable in his urgency.

As he climbed into the driver’s seat, the smell of old coffee and motor oil filled the cab.

He shifted the truck into reverse, backing out of the driveway with a sharp gravel crunch.

Rowan let out a high-pitched, weak squeak that didn’t sound like a baby at all.

It sounded like a small, wounded animal trapped in a box.

“Look at his mouth,” Arthur said, throwing the truck into drive and accelerating down our quiet suburban street.

I looked down at my son’s face.

The skin around his lips was a faint, dusty shade of lavender.

“He’s blue,” I choked out, a cold dread washing over my skin. “Arthur, his mouth is blue.”

“Keep him upright,” Arthur ordered, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. “Do not let him chin-tuck. Keep his airway as straight as you can.”

I adjusted my grip, placing my palm behind Rowan’s head to keep his neck extended.