Ethan immediately set the wooden spoon on the stove rest, washed his hands at the sink with orange soap, and scooped our daughter into his arms.

He held her against his chest, humming the low tune he used to ignore when he was buried in his laptop.

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

Her small, rounded fingernails gripped his collar tightly.

“Her skin is cool,” he said softly.

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

I stepped closer and straightened June’s collar.