I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through
"THE BABY IS GONE." The words tear through the apartment before Everest has fully processed that he is saying them aloud. The crib is empty. He knows he checked it correctly—he always checks it correctly— the tiny indentation gone, no infant weight, no quiet breathing. For one suspended second his mind refuses to populate the gap with explanations. It leaps immediately to catastrophe.
Barefoot, half-awake and fully electrified with panic, he crosses the bedroom in three long strides and bursts into the living space. "Isla?" His voice is already too loud. "Isla!" His chest tightens sharply as his eyes sweep the room—sofa, kitchen, the small table—every surface catalogued in frantic succession. He pivots toward the sliding doors and rushes forward, and there, on the balcony in the grey wash of rainlight, Isla sits in the rocking chair with Fern tucked peacefully against her chest.
For half a heartbeat, Everest simply freezes in the doorway, shock slamming into relief so abruptly it almost staggers him. Unfortunately, the damage is already done. His shout has snapped Fern from sleep, and the quiet morning fractures into a thin, outraged wail. Everest presses a hand against his sternum as if to physically hold his heart in place. "Oh," he breathes, voice collapsing into a whisper of pure relief. He steps out onto the balcony, rain-cooled air brushing his skin, eyes fixed on the small furious bundle in Isla’s arms as if verifying she is real.
"You moved her," he says, the words not accusatory but breathless with aftershock. "She was not in the crib." His hands hover uselessly for a moment before settling on the railing, knuckles whitening slightly as the adrenaline drains out of him in slow, shaky waves
Barefoot, half-awake and fully electrified with panic, he crosses the bedroom in three long strides and bursts into the living space. "Isla?" His voice is already too loud. "Isla!" His chest tightens sharply as his eyes sweep the room—sofa, kitchen, the small table—every surface catalogued in frantic succession. He pivots toward the sliding doors and rushes forward, and there, on the balcony in the grey wash of rainlight, Isla sits in the rocking chair with Fern tucked peacefully against her chest.
For half a heartbeat, Everest simply freezes in the doorway, shock slamming into relief so abruptly it almost staggers him. Unfortunately, the damage is already done. His shout has snapped Fern from sleep, and the quiet morning fractures into a thin, outraged wail. Everest presses a hand against his sternum as if to physically hold his heart in place. "Oh," he breathes, voice collapsing into a whisper of pure relief. He steps out onto the balcony, rain-cooled air brushing his skin, eyes fixed on the small furious bundle in Isla’s arms as if verifying she is real.
"You moved her," he says, the words not accusatory but breathless with aftershock. "She was not in the crib." His hands hover uselessly for a moment before settling on the railing, knuckles whitening slightly as the adrenaline drains out of him in slow, shaky waves
