Her small body was surrounded by wires and monitors that seemed too big for a seven-year-old, and her chest rose and fell erratically under the oxygen mask.
A nurse was adjusting the IV line while another doctor reviewed the lab results on an electronic tablet.
“Stable pressure, but saturation remains low,” said someone near the head of the bed.
I felt my heart clench as I walked slowly toward him, each step burdened with the unbearable weight of uncertainty.
“Leo,” I whispered, taking her small hand in mine.
Her skin was cold.
Too cold.
“Mom’s here,” I murmured, leaning close to her ear in the desperate hope that some part of her consciousness might hear me.
The heart monitor beeped steadily as he watched her pale face, searching for any sign that she was still struggling to come back.
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