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

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

Her forehead felt like a warm radiator under my palm.

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

He did not look up from his laptop screen.

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

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

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

“Is that bad?”

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

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

Ethan reached back without shifting his shoulders, feeling blindly around the plastic cutlery tray before finding the soft pack.

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

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

“If this launch framework is not in Alan Vance’s inbox by midnight, he is going to hand 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.”