Not the tired fuss Leo made when he needed a bottle.
This was sharp, panicked, breathless.
At the same time, the smell of roast chicken and garlic rolled out of the kitchen, thick and warm, as if dinner had been going on in a house where nothing was wrong.
I dropped my travel bag by the door.
The leather hit the floor with a heavy thud.
I ran.
I had been gone exactly forty-eight hours.
It was my first business trip since Elena gave birth, and I had hated every hour of it.
Our son was only a few weeks old.
He was still in that impossible newborn stage where his whole body seemed too small for the world, where his fingers curled around mine like thread, where Elena checked his breathing even after he had been asleep for five minutes.
Before I left, I had told Elena three times not to cook.
I had told her to order delivery.
I had left extra cash in the little ceramic bowl by the microwave.
I had stocked the fridge with easy food.
At 6:18 p.m. on Friday, from the airport, I texted her again.
Do not cook. Order anything. Rest.
At 6:21 p.m., she wrote back.
I promise.
That text was still in my phone.
It was still the last normal thing between us when I turned the corner into the kitchen and saw my wife on the rug.
For a moment, my brain refused to understand the shape of her.