I leaned over the bassinet. Our three-week-old son, Liam, was lying beneath a thin cotton receiving blanket. His tiny hands were blue at the knuckles, and he was not crying. He was making a small, high-pitched clicking sound with every breath.
I unzipped my heavy down winter coat. I lifted my son from the white wicker bassinet, wrapping him tightly in the thick, down-filled fabric of my jacket. I held him close to my chest, feeling the frantic, rapid flutter of his heart.
“We are leaving,” I said, walking back to the bedroom.
Maya was trying to sit up, but the movement made her gasp. She pressed her hand harder against her abdomen, her eyes closing.
“I cannot walk down the stairs, David,” she said.
“I will carry you,” I said.
I set the bundle containing my son on the middle of the bed. I helped Maya slide her legs over the edge, then I lifted her in my arms. She felt dangerously light, her collarbones sharp against my shoulder.
