Chapter Twenty-Two
Trent’s son was too small in the bed. Too many tubes trailed from his body, attached at the crook of his elbow, the nostrils, everywhere. There were more tubes of fluid and bags, and beeping monitors than he could handle.
He held Adalia close to his chest, her head tucked beneath her chin, his shirt wet from her sobbing. She was in a personal hell and he couldn’t reach her there. He couldn’t swim out of his purgatory and find her.
Isaac was tiny, a beige walnut, wrinkled in the wrong places. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The diaper they’d put on him dwarfed the tops of his dimpled thighs.
That was his son in the bed, passing into a place he couldn’t reach. His son, gone forever if he didn’t find a way to stop him.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, but
