June reached up with both hands, her tiny fingers tangling in the front of his flannel shirt.

Her small, rounded fingernails gripped his collar firmly.

“Her skin is cool,” he said softly.

“She hasn’t had a spike since Tuesday morning,” I said.

I stepped closer and adjusted June’s collar.

Her cheeks were pale pink, clear and warm, with none of the blotchy dark red that had terrified us seven nights ago in the dark nursery.

Ethan gently rocked her back and forth, his boots silent on the linoleum floor.

“She ate all sixty milliliters at two o’clock,” Ethan said.