“Are you Rowan’s mother?” he asked, walking toward us with quick, purposeful strides.

I gripped the armrests of the wheelchair, my heart stopping in my chest.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Is he okay?”

The doctor stopped in front of me, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder.

“We have him on high-flow oxygen right now,” the doctor said. “But his lungs are extremely stiff, and he is working too hard.”

He paused, his eyes searching mine.

“We need to intubate him, Marissa.”

The word felt like a physical blow to my chest.

“Intubate?” I whispered.

My voice sounded small, like it belonged to someone else.

The doctor nodded, his green scrubs rustling as he shifted his weight.

“His oxygen levels are dropping,” he said.

“He is working too hard to breathe, and his chest is retacting.”

“We need to let a machine do the work for him so his body can rest.”

Arthur stepped closer to the wheelchair, his hand pressing gently on my shoulder.

“Do what you have to do, Doctor,” Arthur said.

“Please,” I choked out, tears finally breaking free and spilling down my cheeks.