“Three days,” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “He’s three days old.”

The nurse reached into the cab, her fingers immediately pressing against Rowan’s tiny wrist.

“He’s cyanotic,” she said loudly, turning her head back toward the entrance. “We need a pediatric crash cart in triage now!”

She opened my door fully and reached her arms out to take my baby.

“I’ve got him, mom,” she said, her voice dropping into a calm, authoritative tone that terrified me more than her shouting. “Let me take him.”

My arms felt heavy, like lead weights, and my fingers didn’t want to loosen their grip.

But I forced my hands to open.

I watched her cradle Rowan against her chest, immediately placing the tiny clear mask over his nose and mouth.

“Is he going to die?” I screamed, the words tearing out of my throat.

Arthur was already at my side of the truck, reaching in to unbuckle my seatbelt.

“He is in the right place now, Marissa,” Arthur said, his strong arms sliding under me once again to lift me from the seat.