“Please,” I kept saying to the driver, my voice shaking, “it’s a baby—please go faster.”
In the backseat, I held my grandson close to my chest, trying to steady his tiny body as his cries turned hoarse and uneven. His face was flushed, his little fists clenched, his breathing no longer steady.
I had seen enough in my life to recognize panic—but this was something deeper.
This was instinct.
And it was screaming at me that something was very wrong.
When we finally reached the hospital, I didn’t wait. I rushed through the doors, calling out for help.
“Please—someone help me! He’s only two months old!”
A nurse turned immediately, her expression shifting the moment she saw the baby.
Continue on the next page:
