Wynter’s POV
I’m sitting by Grace’s bed, a clipboard resting on my knee which I’m supposed to be filling in, but I don’t know half the information of. Beside me, Grace lies on her back, in just her diaper, sticky pads on her chest that run wires to a machine that beeps loudly. There is a canula in her hand that is connected to a drip, that is pushing fluids into her body that is still covered in spots.
They took blood samples, ran observations, poked and prodded her as she cried pitifully, wrenching my heart in two. When they turned to me and asked to do a lumbar puncture, I had to admit that I wasn’t her mother but a glorified babysitter, though I’m not even that.
The doctors talked together before they rolled Grace over onto her side, ushering me out of the cubicle as I protested.
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