David was growing heavier in my arms. His skin was cooling. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat.
I couldn't wait.
Fighting through the concussion dizziness, I hoisted him up and began to run.
I ran until my lungs burned. I screamed for help until I tasted blood in my throat.
But the road stretched empty before me. Not a single car passed.
At first, David tugged at my shirt, whispering, "Mom, it hurts..."
But as the minutes dragged on, the light in his eyes—eyes that used to sparkle with mischief—began to dim. His breathing turned into a terrifying rattle.
He pressed his face against my neck, his voice barely a wisp of air.
"Mom, don't cry... I... love you..."
Tears blinded me. I couldn't see the road, only the encroaching darkness.
"Baby, don't sleep. Stay with me. The hospital is just ahead..."
"You wanted to see the ocean, remember? Mommy will take you. Just hold on..."
The warmth in my arms was fading.
I screamed his name, my voice breaking into jagged shards. "David! Wake up! Mommy is begging you..."
Silence answered me.
The winter wind sliced my face like razors, drying the tears instantly. I didn't know how long I ran before I finally collided with an ambulance.