The Braun digital ear thermometer beeped three times, the sound harsh against the soft hum of the refrigerator.

June let out a thin, raspy whimper, her tiny legs twitching on the changing mat on the kitchen counter.

Her forehead felt like a warm radiator under my hand.

“What does it say?” Ethan asked from the kitchen table.

He didn’t look up from his laptop.

A blue slide deck reflected in the lenses of his glasses, packed with revenue projections and timeline boxes.

“One hundred one point two,” I said, rubbing the edge of my silver wedding band out of habit.

“That’s a low-grade fever, but her skin is mottling around her thighs.”

“Is that bad?”

“It means her vascular system is reacting to an infection.

Pass me the baby wipes from the drawer behind you.”

Ethan reached back without turning his shoulders, feeling around blindly in the plastic cutlery tray before he found the soft pack.

He set it on the table beside his leather laptop messenger bag.

“I need ten minutes,” Ethan said, running both hands through his hair until it stuck up in messy tufts.

“If this launch framework isn’t in Alan Vance’s inbox by midnight, he’s going to give the quarterly review to the senior group in Chicago.”

“She needs to be held while I pack a fresh bag with clothes and infant acetaminophen,” I said.

“Rachel, please.

I have eighty slides to clean up before nine tomorrow morning.”