The nursery was calm that night. The soft hum of the baby monitor blended into the quiet, and little Micah, my sister’s infant son, lay peacefully in his crib, swaddled and sleeping soundly. I was just down the hall folding laundry when something unexpected made me freeze.
A whisper.
“He’s not okay.”
It was barely audible, but it cut through the silence in a way that made my skin prickle. I stared at the monitor, heart racing, unsure of what I’d just heard. Micah was still sleeping. The house was still. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
I immediately called my sister, Irina. Before I could explain, she interrupted, her voice firm and urgent.
“Take Micah. Go to the car. Lock the doors. Call 911—now.”
I didn’t question her. I ran into the nursery, gently lifted Micah, and hurried downstairs. My hands were shaking so badly I struggled to unlock the front door. Outside, the cool night air hit me as I rushed to the car, strapped Micah in, and locked the doors.
Once inside, I called 911.
“Stay calm, ma’am. Help is on the way,” the dispatcher said.
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