Chapter 2
I carried Noah back toward the kitchen, his fever-warm cheek pressed to my collarbone, while Daniel stayed on the phone.
“I’m taking them to be seen,” I said. “Now.”
“I’ll arrange the car,” he replied. “Tell me when you’re ready. You decide where it takes you.”
That was the difference between help and an order. I stood in the dim kitchen, listening to Noah’s rough little breaths, and felt the fear inside me sharpen into something useful.
I called the pediatrician’s after-hours line and described both babies’ temperatures and how they were acting. The nurse listened, asked me to repeat a few details, then told me to bring them in for an urgent evaluation. I didn’t ask whether the timing was inconvenient or whether Cole might object. I said I was leaving.
The call ended. I laid Noah beside Lily long enough to dress them both in warm layers, moving gently so their crying wouldn’t wake the whole building. Lily’s fingers curled around the edge of her blanket. I tucked it around her, then checked Noah’s face again before settling him into his carrier.
My canvas tote waited behind the coats. I added diapers, wipes, bottles, a change of clothes for each baby, and the medical cards and papers I’d already gathered. I put my phone charger in last. The trust request could wait a few hours. Their care couldn’t.
Daniel called back.
“The car will be at the side entrance in ten minutes,” he said. “The driver knows to wait until you come down. I can give you the address for the apartment once you’re on your way.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight what happens after tonight.”
I looked at the two small shapes bundled by the door. “Tonight is enough.”
Before I left, I opened the location-sharing settings on my phone. Cole’s access was there, ordinary as a shared photograph, a small connection I’d stopped noticing because he’d made it sound like protection. My finger hovered a moment. Then I turned it off and checked twice that it had stayed off.
The screen went dark. I slipped the phone into my coat.
The apartment seemed louder after I had prepared to leave: the refrigerator humming, a pipe ticking in the wall, the clock clicking toward a morning I hadn’t planned to face alone. I stood in the hallway with the babies and tote, one hand on the doorknob, and let myself feel the fear.
Then I opened the door.
The driver waited downstairs beside a dark sedan. He didn’t ask questions. He helped secure the carriers, and I climbed into the back between my children, keeping my palm near Noah’s blanket as the car eased into the sleeping streets.
At the pediatric emergency department, the bright lights made everything look harsher than it was. A nurse checked the babies, asked what I’d observed, and listened while I answered. I watched her face for any sign that I should be more afraid than I already was.
Hours passed in pieces: a thermometer, a quiet examination room, Lily’s soft fussing, Noah finally dozing against my chest. The doctor checked them both and told me neither needed to be admitted. I received instructions for watching their symptoms, keeping them comfortable, and following up with their pediatrician. I asked questions until I understood every answer.
When we stepped outside, the sky had begun to pale. Christmas morning arrived without fanfare, a gray strip of light over wet pavement.
Daniel called as the driver pulled away.
“I have a place for you,” he said. “It’s quiet and close enough to get back for follow-up care. I’ll text the address directly.”
“Okay.”
“You’re doing the right thing by taking care of the babies first.”
I looked down at Noah’s sleeping face and Lily’s blanket tucked beneath her chin. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”
The apartment was small and warm, with a little kitchen and curtains that turned the morning light soft. It smelled faintly of clean laundry. I checked the locks, set the diaper bag beside the door, and followed the doctor’s instructions, keeping the babies comfortable and close. For the first time since the night began, no one was asking me to prove that I deserved to make a decision.
I sat between their sleeping places and listened.
A phone buzz broke the quiet.
Cole.
The first message was short.
Where are you?
I didn’t answer. A second arrived before I could set the phone down.
I came home. The apartment is empty.
Then the nursery.
I imagined him standing in its doorway, facing the crib and the folded blankets, finding no one there to explain himself to. My stomach tightened. I put the phone facedown and reached to touch Lily’s small hand.
It buzzed again.
You don’t get to take my children and disappear. Tell me where you are.
I could hear his voice in the words—the certainty that a demand was the same thing as an answer. My thumb trembled above the screen. I wanted, for one second, to give him what he asked for simply to make the pressure stop.
Then I looked at Noah. At Lily. At the medical instructions on the table, where I could reach them.
The phone buzzed once more.
May you like
I will find you.
I turned it facedown again. Fear was still there, hard and cold in my chest. But it no longer got to choose for me.
