Amara’s POV
The post office clerk didn't even look up as he slapped the "EXPRESS" sticker onto the two large, reinforced boxes. To him, they were just cardboard and tape. To me, they were the last six weeks of my life, stitched into twelve garments that carried the weight of my son’s future.
"Tracking number's on the receipt, lady," he grunted.
I tucked the slip of paper into my bra, the only place I knew it would be safe. As I stepped out of the building and into the biting Belvidere wind, I adjusted the sling across my chest. Noah was a warm, rhythmic weight against my heart, his tiny face shielded by a silk scarf. The portable oxygen concentrator hummed in its shoulder bag, a steady reminder of the fragility we were managing every day.
We did it, Noah, I thought, my eyes stinging. T
