“I need help!” I roared, the sliding doors barely parting fast enough as I burst into the triage area. “She’s not breathing right! I need a doctor!”
The sterile, fluorescent-lit room erupted into controlled chaos. A nurse materialized with a gurney in seconds.
“How old?” she demanded, her hands already moving over Elsie’s tiny frame.
“Three,” I choked out, running alongside the gurney. “Massive fever. Barely responsive. They’ve been home alone. I don’t know for how long.”
The nurse’s eyes snapped up to mine, a hard, sharp judgment flashing in her pupils before she masked it with clinical detachment. “We’re taking her to Trauma One. Stay here.”
They crashed through double doors, leaving me stranded in the harsh hallway. I looked down. Micah was gripping my pant leg so tightly his knuckles were white, his whole body vibrating like a plucked string.
I dropped to my knees, right there on the linoleum, ignoring the stares of the waiting room. I pulled him tight against my chest. “They’re fixing her, buddy. I’m not going anywhere. I swear to you, I am right here.”
“She’s gonna wake up, right?” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
I had never made a promise with less certainty, but I injected every ounce of authority I possessed into my voice. “Yes. She’s going to be fine.”
The next two hours were a waking nightmare. I paced the floor, gave my insurance information, and then found myself sitting in a cramped, windowless office with a hospital social worker. Her name was Sarah, a composed woman with silver-rimmed glasses and a notepad balanced on her knee.
I told her everything. The custody arrangement. Delaney’s text about the lake house. The empty kitchen. The crust in the cup.
