Mommy’s right here.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and unfocused, but her dark eyes didn’t follow my face.

I slid two fingers into the hollow under her jaw.

Her pulse ran thin and fast, like a bird fluttering against dry twigs, and her skin stayed tented when I pinched the back of her hand.

On the floor beside the couch lay an empty sippy cup tipped on its side, a crust of sour white residue dried around the valve.

Next to it was an open wax sleeve of saltines, crushed to powder across the rug.