“They are taking him straight to the resuscitation bay,” the nurse said, her eyes gentle but urgent. “We need his full name and date of birth, mom.”

“Rowan Bellamy,” I said, my voice shaking. “He was born on Tuesday.”

“Does he have any known medical conditions?” she asked, writing rapidly.

“No, he was healthy when we left the hospital yesterday,” I said. “He just started breathing fast this morning. My husband… my husband took the car.”

The nurse stopped writing for a fraction of a second, looking up at me, then down at Arthur.

Arthur just nodded once, a silent confirmation of the nightmare.

“We are going to get you back to him as soon as they have him stabilized,” the nurse said, clicking her pen. “Can you sign this consent for emergency treatment?”

She held the clipboard down in front of me.

My hand shook so violently that the signature was nothing more than a jagged, horizontal line.

The heavy double doors swung open again, and a tall doctor in green scrubs stepped out, his face solemn.

He looked around the waiting area, his eyes landing on my wheelchair.