Her baby was asleep. Then a voice whispered:
“He’s not okay.”
I froze. The house was dead silent, except for that crackling whisper through the monitor. My heart slammed against my ribs. I grabbed my phone with shaky hands and called my sister, Irina.
Before I could even finish telling her what I heard, she shouted, “Take my son and run to the car. Lock it and call 911!”
I didn’t ask questions. I yanked little Micah from his crib, still wrapped in his sleep sack, and ran downstairs barefoot. My mind was spinning — was someone in the house? Was it a prank? A glitch? Or something worse?
