The message got to you late. Or at least that’s how it feels as you run through the hospital corridors, heart in your throat, your uniform still dirty from half a shift. You can’t remember if you locked the car door properly. You don’t remember how you got inside. All you know is someone called and said your son was unconscious.

And that was enough to make your entire world tremble.

You see it from the entrance to the ER: the stretcher, your five-year-old’s small body, cables everywhere, monitors beeping. The teacher is speaking to someone from the hospital, but you barely hear a thing.

“Sir, you can’t go in yet!” —someone calls out as you try to push your way into the trauma area.

But then you see him.

Jack Abbott, your husband. The father of the child lying in that bed.

He’s there. Gloves on, brow furrowed, his voice calm as he gives directions to the medical team. But when his eyes find yours sharp, locked, more terrified than you’ve ever seen them something cracks in his face.

He knows this isn’t just another patient. This is a child with autism. Sensitive, delicate, a whole world inside him… and now unconscious on that stretcher.

“Let him in!” he orders.

You walk in. You go straight to your son and take his tiny, cold hand. You can’t even speak. You just stare at him.

Jack comes closer.

“I know this is hard,” he whispers. “But I’m here. I’m with him. With you. Please go wait outside, love. Just for a bit, okay?”