Every bump in the asphalt sent a shudder of pain through my pelvis, but I barely felt it.

“Where are we going?” I asked, staring at the green leaves of the oak trees blurring past the window.

“Presbyterian,” Arthur said. “It’s the closest pediatric ER. We’ll take Sharon Amity to Randolph.”

He pressed his foot down, and the old V8 engine roared, pushing us past forty miles per hour on the residential street.

Rowan’s chest was sinking in deeply just below his ribcage every time he took a breath.

I had read about this in the hospital pamphlets three days ago.

It was called retractions.

It meant his body was exhausting itself just to keep his lungs inflated.

“Landon has the car seat,” I said, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. “I don’t even have his diaper bag. I don’t have anything.”

“You have the boy,” Arthur said, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. “That is all that matters.”

We hit the intersection of Sharon Amity Road, and the light was turning yellow.

Arthur did not slow down.