His face looked gray and slack in a way I had never seen, not even when he slept.
Ten feet away, in the doorway to the den, Chloe lay crumpled on her side in her school jacket.
Her pink backpack was still hanging halfway off one shoulder.
For one horrible second, my body tried to turn into stone.
Then I moved.
I dropped beside Chloe first because she was my child, and guilt is not logical when it has a pulse.
Her cheek was warm under my fingers.
Her lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted around shallow, uneven breaths.
“Baby, stay with me,” I said.
My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Daniel groaned once behind me, low and broken.
I crawled to him, pressed two fingers against his neck, and found a pulse.
Weak, but there.
The smashed mug had sprayed coffee across the cabinet base.
The brown liquid was already drying in thin lines, like a clock had started without us.
