The heat of the day

The Heat of the Day

Evan Caldwell woke to silence, the kind that screamed trouble. No blaring alarm, no buzzing phone. He bolted upright, heart racing, and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Dead. He’d forgotten to plug it in. The clock on the wall read 7:42 a.m.—he was already an hour behind.

“Damn it,” he muttered, scrambling out of bed. Today was critical. The senior partners at Kessler & Lane were meeting to discuss promotions, and Evan, a 38-year-old attorney with a relentless work ethic, was gunning for partner. It was his shot to secure a future where he could finally slow down, take his wife, Sarah, on that long-promised trip to Italy, and spend real time with their three kids: Emma (8), Lily (5), and his pride and joy, one-year-old Max, his only son.

The heat hit him like a wall as he stumbled into the bathroom. Chicago was choking under a record-breaking heatwave, the worst in decades, with temperatures pushing 105°F and a heat index that made breathing feel like drowning. He splashed water on his face, threw on a suit, and raced downstairs. Sarah was in the kitchen, juggling Max on her hip while packing lunches for the girls.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice tight. “Evan, don’t forget—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he said, barely listening. His mind was already in the office, rehearsing his pitch to the partners. He nodded absently, kissed Max’s forehead, and grabbed his briefcase. Sarah said something else, but he was out the door, the words lost in the haze of his haste.

The morning unraveled like a bad dream. His car’s AC was on the fritz, leaving him sweating through his shirt before he even hit the highway. A fender-bender on I-90 cost him another 20 minutes, and by the time he reached the daycare to drop off Max—wait. He froze, hands gripping the steering wheel. Max. He’d meant to drop him off, but in his rush… had he? His stomach twisted, but he pushed the thought aside. Sarah must’ve taken him. She’d said something about daycare, hadn’t she? He couldn’t remember. His phone, still dead, offered no answers.

At the office, chaos reigned. A major client’s merger was imploding, and Evan was thrust into back-to-back meetings, drafting contracts, and soothing egos. His paralegal handed him a coffee, but it did little to dull the pounding in his head. The heat seeped through the windows, making the 40th floor feel like a sauna. Every glance at the clock reminded him of the partner meeting at 4 p.m.—his one shot to prove he was worth the title.

Lunch was a skipped meal, replaced by a tense call with a client threatening to walk. By 2 p.m., he was running on fumes, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He finally found a charger for his phone, but the flood of missed calls and texts—12 from Sarah—barely registered. He’d call her after the meeting. She was probably just stressed about the kids.

The partner meeting was a blur of nerves and adrenaline. Evan delivered his pitch, outlining his billable hours, client wins, and vision for the firm’s future. The senior partners nodded, their faces unreadable. “We’ll let you know by end of week,” one said. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. He left the room on shaky legs, a mix of hope and exhaustion.

By 6 p.m., the office was emptying out. Evan grabbed his keys and headed to the parking garage, the heat still oppressive even as the sun dipped low. His phone buzzed—another text from Sarah: Where are you? Call me NOW. He frowned, irritation flaring. She knew how big today was. He’d call her from the car.

The garage was a concrete oven, the air thick and stale. He unlocked his SUV and slid inside, the leather seats scalding through his pants. He started the engine, cranking the useless AC, and that’s when it hit him. A sound. A faint, almost imperceptible whimper from the back seat.

His blood turned to ice. He whipped around, and there, strapped in his car seat, was Max. His tiny face was flushed red, his eyes half-open, his little body limp. The diaper bag sat untouched on the floor. Evan’s heart stopped. He hadn’t dropped Max off. He’d left him in the car. All day. In this heat.

“No, no, no!” he screamed, fumbling to unbuckle Max. The baby was burning hot, his skin clammy. Evan’s hands shook as he pulled Max into his arms, sprinting toward the garage exit, yelling for help. His phone fell to the ground, forgotten. A security guard saw him and radioed for an ambulance.

The next hour was a nightmare of flashing lights, paramedics, and Evan’s own sobs. Max was rushed to the hospital, his condition critical. Heatstroke, they said. Dehydration. Possible organ damage. Evan sat in the waiting room, head in his hands, replaying the morning. Sarah’s words echoed: “Evan, don’t forget…” She’d been trying to remind him about Max. He’d nodded, too distracted to listen, and now his son was fighting for his life.

Sarah arrived, her face a mask of grief and fury. “How could you?” she whispered, her voice breaking. He had no answer. The girls were with her parents, but Max… Max was in the ICU, tubes snaking from his tiny body. The doctors were cautious, saying it was touch-and-go. Every hour felt like a lifetime.

Evan didn’t sleep that night, or the next. He stayed by Max’s bedside, whispering apologies, begging for a miracle. Sarah barely spoke to him, her silence louder than any scream. The law firm called—Evan was named partner. He didn’t care. The title meant nothing now.

Days later, Max stabilized, but the road to recovery would be long. There could be lasting effects, the doctors warned. Evan took a leave from work, vowing to be there for every appointment, every moment of his son’s healing. He and Sarah began the slow, painful work of rebuilding trust, though some scars would never fade.

The heatwave broke, but the weight of that day never left Evan. He’d chased a dream and nearly lost everything. Now, he lived for the moments he’d once rushed past: Max’s sleepy smile, the girls’ laughter, Sarah’s hand in his. Partner or not, he’d never forget again.