Someone gave her small amounts of water while another staff member checked her vital signs.
Her stuffed bear stayed tucked against her side.
The doctor’s expression changed during the examination.
It was not dramatic.
That made it worse.
She became quieter, more precise, and more careful with every question.
Finally, she turned toward me.
“She is severely dehydrated, and she is not getting the nutrition she needs,” the doctor said. “She needs to stay here while we evaluate everything.”
I looked at Lizzy on the bed.
A hospital band circled her tiny wrist.
Her fingers rested on the bear’s worn ear.
Yesterday, I had accepted every excuse my parents offered.
She’s delicate.
She’s picky.
She’s fine.
Now those words sounded like locks.
Adam arrived carrying dry clothes and a paper cup of coffee I never touched.
He stopped in the doorway when he saw Lizzy.
