I took him into the bathroom, where the white tile reflected the brightest bulb in the apartment.
I laid him down on the plush bath mat, my knees pressing into the linoleum as I worked the small plastic snaps of his outfit. Toby writhed, his tiny knees pulling up toward his chin, his screams echoing off the medicine cabinet. I unbuttoned the bottom of his suit, expecting the heavy weight of an afternoon diaper.
When I pulled the adhesive tabs back, the diaper was clean and barely damp.
The skin beneath it was not normal.
From his waist down to his thighs, his skin was a solid, angry sheet of scarlet. It was not the dry, speckled pink of a common diaper rash, but a raised, blistering heat that looked like it had been scalded by steam. I touched the very edge of his hip with my finger, and Toby let out a sound so sharp my hand jumped back.
