Toby did not even blink. His face was a dark, wet crimson, his eyes squeezed shut as another wave of screams shook his chest.
“Look here, Toby,” I whispered, keeping my voice steady. “Look at the silver.”
I jingled the rattle closer to his face, but the sound only seemed to grate on him, making his tiny hands bunch into fists. His toes curled tightly under the knit booties, his little legs kicking against my ribs. The crying grew sharper, a high, thin rasp that sounded like dry paper tearing.
I set the rattle back on the dresser, its metallic ring dying out instantly against the wood.
My bedroom was cold, the radiator under the window giving off only a faint, rusty hiss that did not warm the floorboards. I held Toby close, walking him in small circles near the bed, but every step seemed to jostle him into a fresh panic. His skin felt hot through his cotton sleep suit, a dry, baking heat that made my own forehead damp with sweat.
