“Okay, Addie. We’re getting both of you out of this heat right now.”
She shakes her head violently. “No hospitals.”
You look at Lily again. Her skin is too warm. Her breathing is too fast. This is not optional.
“Addie,” you say, keeping your voice level, “if we do nothing, your sister could die.”
At that, something in her face crumples. Not dramatically. Not with the loud release children are supposed to have in movies. It is smaller, more devastating. A brief collapse of the muscles around her mouth, like grief has learned to live there permanently.
“She almost did already,” she says.
You get them into the car.
Addie flinches at the leather seats and glossy wood paneling, as if luxury itself is a kind of trap. She sits rigid in the back, the baby in her lap, your suit jacket draped over both of them while the air-conditioning pushes cool air through the cabin. You hand her a bottle of water and tell her to sip, not gulp. Then you call the only person you know in Phoenix who answers on the first ring without trying to turn every moment into leverage.
Dr. Naomi Reyes.
Pediatric ER. Former college friend of your ex-wife. One of the last people who still speaks to you without calculation.
“Ethan?” she says. “Please tell me this isn’t one of your annual surprise calls where you donate a wing to absolve your conscience.”
“I found a kid on the side of Highway 10 with an infant in a backpack.”
There is one beat of silence, then her voice changes entirely. “How old?”
“Girl is maybe twelve. Baby under six months, I think. Heat exposure. Dehydration. Barefoot. They both need help.”
“Bring them to St. Mary’s East entrance. I’ll meet you there. And Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Drive like hell.”
You do.
Leave a Comment