My body was a traitor. It lay limp and useless on the cold hardwood floor, a dead weight my frantic mind was trapped inside. Beside me, my son, Eli, was a small, motionless heap. In the dim light filtering from the hallway, I could just make out the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. For now. That single, fragile fact was the only anchor in the swirling chaos of my terror.
Then came the voice, a sound that would forever be etched into my memory like acid on glass. It was my husband, Jared, his tone not one of panic or concern, but of chilling, quiet finality. He stood over us, a dark silhouette against the light.
