Emily leaned into me with every step.
Her breath hitched in tiny sharp pulls.
In the rideshare, she rested her head against my shoulder.
Her fever burned through my shirt.
The driver glanced at us twice in the rearview mirror but did not ask questions.
I was grateful and ashamed of being grateful.
“If he finds out,” Emily whispered, “he’s going to get worse.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said.
I wanted to be the kind of mother who could make that true just by saying it.
At the county hospital, the doors opened with a soft mechanical sigh.
The lobby smelled like disinfectant, old coffee, and rain tracked in on shoes.
A man in a work jacket sat near the vending machines with his elbows on his knees.
A woman held a paper cup in both hands like it was keeping her upright.
The receptionist stamped the intake sheet at 4:06 a.m.
