She had been walking for nearly fifteen hours.
To save his life.
Ethan felt anger burn inside his chest.
“Can I see him?” he asked softly.
Emily hesitated… then slowly unzipped the worn backpack.
The smell of sweat and sour milk filled the air.
Inside, wrapped in a thin towel, lay the smallest baby Ethan had ever seen.
The infant couldn’t have been more than two weeks old.
His skin looked pale and fragile, almost transparent. His tiny chest rose and fell with painful effort.
The baby was dangerously dehydrated.
“His name is Oliver,” Emily whispered.
Ethan carefully lifted the backpack as if it were made of glass.
“We need to get to a hospital right now,” he said. “I promise you—I’m not taking him away from you.”
They raced toward the nearest hospital in Tucson.
Ethan drove faster than he ever had in his life, ignoring potholes and desert dust as the speedometer climbed past ninety miles per hour.
Every few seconds he glanced in the rearview mirror.
Emily clutched the backpack against her chest, whispering prayers to her brother.
Then something terrible happened.
The weak crying suddenly stopped.
The car filled with silence.
A thick, terrifying silence.