“How are the babies?” Margaret asked.

“They’re asleep upstairs in the new nursery,” I said.

“Noah’s temperature is back down to ninety-eight.”

Margaret held out her hand, and I took her fingers.

Her skin felt dry and paper-thin.

“Doctor Miller came by at four while you were at the apartment,” Margaret said, her voice dropping into a low, quiet rhythm.

I looked at her, waiting for her to go on.

“The specialist confirmed what we knew in January,” Margaret said calmly.