Marcus Richardson stood there, hat dripping, coat wet with rain he must’ve ridden through hard. His eyes were wide, wild with shock. For one second he didn’t move, as if his brain refused to name what he was seeing.
Then rage detonated.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snarled.
Janelle tightened instinctively around the baby. He startled but didn’t unlatch.
Marcus strode forward, fists clenched. “Get away from my son. Now.”
Her throat locked. Fear made her tongue useless.
Marcus’s gaze flicked to the baby’s face and froze.
Because the baby wasn’t gray anymore.
There was pink in his cheeks. Breath in his lungs. Life in his fingers.
“Marcus,” Janelle rasped, voice breaking free in a thin thread. “He was dying.”
