Kyle

The winter air burned your lungs. You hugged six-month-old Eva, bundled in a pink jumpsuit, tighter. You didn't take the stroller—the store was only a couple of minutes away, and the snowdrifts in the yard were impassable.

“Hang on, little one, we’ll buy some formula and then go home,” you whispered, feeling the crust crumble treacherously under your boots.

A girl in a bright down jacket was walking towards you. You took a step to the side to make way, but your foot abruptly veered to the right. The world turned upside down. The dull, terrible sound of impact on ice cut short the child's sniffles.

"Eva!" your scream turned into a wheeze. Your daughter lay on the ice, her eyes wide open, and only a thin, barely audible moan escaped her throat.

"Girl, oh my God! Have you fallen?" a passerby ran up, clutching her mouth.

"An ambulance... please, call an ambulance! She hit her head!" You lifted the child with trembling hands, afraid to even breathe.

While the girl was shouting the address into the phone, you took out your phone. Your fingers were unresponsive, swiping across the screen. "Kyle."

“Hi, honey, I’m busy, I’ll be there in an hour...” came the husband’s calm voice.

"Kyle, urgently..." I choked on sobs. "Come to the hospital. I fell. Eva... she hit the ice. Kyle, she's barely breathing!"

"...I'm on my way. Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back!" His voice rose to a shout, and the sound of a chair being pushed back could be heard on the other end of the line.