Fluorescent lights, antiseptic air, the soft metronome of a monitor. Lisa looked smaller in the waiting room, all edges and worry. “They’re giving fluids,” she said. “The doctor thinks infection. I—”
“We’ll take it one hour at a time,” Helen said, steadying both of them with the sentence. They walked in together, shoulders almost touching, as if remembering how to move like family.
Inside, the children slept hot and restless, their breaths shallow as paper boats on rainwater.
