Around Noah’s tiny left thigh, high near the groin where the diaper covered it, something thin had been wound so tightly into the skin that it had nearly disappeared beneath the swelling. At first glance it looked like thread. Then maybe hair. Then maybe some kind of elastic cord. The flesh above it was puffy and angry red, and below it his leg looked discolored—darker than it should have, mottled in a way that made my stomach turn.
I stopped breathing.
No.
No, no, no.
My hands began to shake so badly I had to grip the edge of the changing table to steady myself.
“What is that?” I whispered aloud, horrified.
Noah screamed harder when I touched near it.
I yanked my hand back.
Every instinct in me shouted the same thing: hospital. Now.
There was no time to think. No time to call Daniel. No time to wonder how something like that had happened or why no one had noticed. I grabbed the diaper bag, threw a blanket over Noah without even changing him properly, and ran.
I am sixty-three years old. I have arthritis in my knees and I haven’t run anywhere in years.
That morning, I flew.
I strapped Noah into his car seat with fumbling fingers, sobbing to myself under my breath, praying I wasn’t taking too long, praying circulation hadn’t been cut off too long, praying God would not let this child lose his leg because the adults in his life had failed him.
The drive to St. Andrew’s Medical Center should have taken fifteen minutes.
I made it in eight.
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