Noah looked so small in the hospital bed.
Tubes and wires snaked around his little body, connecting him to machines that beeped and hummed with mechanical precision. His dark hair was damp with fever sweat, his storm-colored eyes cloudy with exhaustion.
But he was breathing. The intensive antibiotics were working.
"Mama!" He tried to sit up when he saw me, but the effort made him cough—a harsh, rattling sound that broke my heart.
"Hey, baby." I gathered him carefully into my arms, mindful of the IV line in his small hand. "I'm here. Mama's here."
"I missed you so much. Mrs. Rodriguez said you were at a princess wedding, but then I got sick and couldn't breathe and the doctors were scary..."
"Shh." I smoothed his damp hair. "You're going to be fine. The medicine is making you better."
