My seven-day-old son had a raging fever beside his unconscious mother—one look from the doctor and he ordered the police called, exposing a truth no one expected

lips looked dry.

When I touched his forehead, heat shot into my palm.

I lifted him.

He barely moved.

“Emily,” I said.

No answer.

I shook her shoulder.

“Emily, wake up.”

Her skin was burning too.

For maybe one second, a strange calm passed through me.

The kind of calm that arrives when your mind refuses to accept the size of what is happening.