Not because you are unused to tragedy. Wealth does not protect anyone from tragedy. It simply teaches people how to hide it behind tinted windows and excellent lighting. No, what breaks something open in you is the way the baby has been packed with such obvious care. Whoever placed her in this bag had almost nothing, and still tried to build a nest out of scraps.
The girl drops to her knees opposite you. “Her name is Lily,” she whispers. “She’s my sister.”
You take out your water bottle with slow, deliberate movements. “What’s your name?”
“Addie.”
“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.
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