She clutched a gray stuffed rabbit tight against her chest, its worn plush fur pressed flat against her collarbone.
I dropped my key ring on the coffee table and knelt on the hardwood floor beside the cushions.
“Lily-bug.Mommy’s right here.”
Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and unfocused, but her dark eyes didn’t follow my face.
I slid two fingers into the hollow under her jaw.
Her pulse ran thin and fast, like a bird fluttering against dry twigs, and her skin stayed tented when I pinched the back of her hand.
On the floor beside the couch lay an empty sippy cup tipped on its side, a crust of sour white residue dried around the valve.
Next to it was an open wax sleeve of saltines, crushed to powder across the rug.“Lily, sweet girl, look at Mommy,” I whispered, brushing the damp hair off her forehead.
