The screen showed their return flight details: *Nassau to Charlotte, Tuesday, 2:15 PM.*

I stared at the little digital airplane icon on the map.

It felt like a countdown to a storm.

Arthur sat in the chair opposite me, his large hands folded in his lap.

“We will get through this, Marissa,” he said gently. “The whole neighborhood is behind you.”

“They won’t get away with this.”

I nodded, but my eyes remained fixed on the little glowing screen, watching the time tick away.

The hospital room was quiet save for the steady beep of Rowan’s monitor.

I watched the blue light of the phototherapy blanket cast long shadows across the linoleum floor.

Rowan’s breathing was shallow, but his oxygen levels were finally holding steady.

Arthur sat in the vinyl armchair by the window, his large frame hunched forward as he peeled an orange.

The sharp, citrus scent filled the sterile air.

“You need to close your eyes, Marissa,” Arthur said, not looking up from his hands.

“I can’t,” I said.

My hand rested on the edge of the plastic bassinet.