I woke Ethan.

“June’s fever is 104. We need to go.”

He was barely awake.

But he got up.

We dressed.

He drove.

And by around two in the morning, we were sitting in the emergency-room waiting area with our four-month-old daughter screaming in my arms.

It wasn’t her hungry cry.

It wasn’t her tired cry.

It was the cry of a baby whose body felt wrong and who had no way to understand why.

I rocked her.

Bounced her.

Sang the low, wordless melody I had invented during the first weeks of her life.

Ethan paced.

After a while, he looked at the clock.

“This is ridiculous.”

I looked up.

“What?”

“I have a huge presentation at nine.”

“Her fever is still high. We need to wait.”

“I’m exhausted, Rachel.”

The words came out sharply.

Then he pulled out his phone and walked away.

I assumed he was contacting work.

I kept rocking June.

Twenty minutes later, the automatic doors opened.

Sylvia walked into the ER.

She was wearing her coat.

She lived forty minutes away.

She had driven forty minutes across town at two in the morning.

Not for June.