"You don't get it." He glanced at his phone again. “I have the presentation at nine.”
"You're worried about the presentation? Our baby is burning up."
"I can't walk in there looking like I haven't slept," he replied.
“Right,” I said. “That would be the real emergency.”
"You don't get it."
He glared at me.
“Don't start.”
I almost laughed.
Our four-month-old had a 104-degree fever, and apparently I was starting something.
His jaw tightened.
“That would be the real emergency.”
Then he pulled out his phone.
"I'm going to make a call."
"To who?"
He walked away without answering.
I turned my attention back to Nora.
"I'm going to make a call."
Twenty minutes later, the automatic doors opened.
Sylvia walked in.
Ethan's mother was wearing a wool coat over what looked like pajamas. Her gray-blond hair was tied back, and she had clearly gotten dressed in a hurry.
