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I leaned over the bassinet. Our three-week-old son, Liam, was lying beneath a thin cotton receiving blanket. His tiny hands were blue at the knuckles, and he was not crying. He was making a small, high-pitched clicking sound with every breath.
I unzipped my heavy down winter coat. I lifted my son from the white wicker bassinet, wrapping him tightly in the thick, down-filled fabric of my jacket. I held him close to my chest, feeling the frantic, rapid flutter of his heart.
“We are leaving,” I said, walking back to the bedroom.
Maya was trying to sit up, but the movement made her gasp. She pressed her hand harder against her abdomen, her eyes closing.
“I cannot walk down the stairs, David,” she said.
“I will carry you,” I said.
I set the bundle containing my son on the middle of the bed. I helped Maya slide her legs over the edge, then I lifted her in my arms. She felt dangerously light, her collarbones sharp against my shoulder.
I managed to grab my phone and my wallet from the dresser. I left my suitcase sitting by the front door.
We went down the three flights of stairs in the dark, my knees aching with every step. The air in the building stairwell smelled of old dust and cold steam.
When I pushed through the heavy glass lobby doors, the wind hit us like a physical blow. The temperature had dropped into the teens.
The street was entirely empty. Most of our neighbors had gone away for the holidays, and the brownstones across the avenue were dark.
I stood on the curb of Seventh Avenue, holding my wife in my arms while Liam remained bundled against my chest inside my open coat.
“I trusted them to keep you safe, Maya,” I said.
She did not reply. She only pressed her face into my neck, her breath warm but shallow.