Marcus had held enough infants to know what four months should feel like. This baby—Eli—was too light. His face was narrow, limbs thin, skin pale enough to show faint blue veins. His cry was fragile, more effort than sound.
Lila dabbed a damp cloth against his lips.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please drink.”
Marcus crouched to her level.
“You did the right thing calling,” he said gently.
She studied him through wet lashes.
“He’s Eli. Mom sleeps a lot. She’s tired all the time. I watch him.”
The sink held empty bottles—some filled with water, some with thin formula. An old phone on the floor displayed a paused video: “How to Feed a Baby When You Don’t Have Help.”
A seven-year-old had been teaching herself how to mother.
“Where’s your mom?” Marcus asked softly.
“In her room. She said she just needed a nap. It’s been a long time. I didn’t want to bother her. I tried. But he keeps getting lighter.”
Marcus radioed for an ambulance immediately. Eli’s breathing was shallow.
“Can I hold him for a minute?” he asked.
She hesitated. Then, with careful seriousness, she transferred the baby into his arms.
He weighed almost nothing.