I managed to sit on the floor, keeping Rowan cradled in my lap.

The room began to spin in slow, sickening circles.

The ceiling fan above seemed to warp and bend.

My breathing became shallow and fast.

“Rowan, baby, I’m trying,” I whispered.

I looked down at his face.

His chest was rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks.

His skin was pale, almost gray, except for the burning flush on his cheeks.

I knew he was dehydrating.

I needed to get him to the emergency room at Carolinas Medical Center.

If I didn’t, his fever would keep climbing.

I tried to push myself back up using the windowsill.

My muscles felt like water.

My fingers slipped off the wood, and I fell back onto the carpet.

The pain in my stomach flared again, sharper this time.

I lay on my side, curling my body around Rowan to protect him.

Through the low angle of the window, I looked back out toward the street.

Arthur had turned around.

He was holding the hose, but he wasn’t looking at his roses anymore.

He was squinting toward our house.