And on the couch lay my daughter.
She was curled on her side beneath a fleece blanket, one sock half off, her hair stuck damply to her forehead. Her skin looked too pale. Her lips were dry and parted. One of her little hands hung limp over the edge of the cushion.
“Ellie.”
I was beside her before the sound finished leaving my mouth.
Her skin was warm—too warm. Not dead warm. Fever warm. But when I touched her cheek and called her name again, she didn’t stir.
“No, no, no.” I swept her into my arms before anyone could stop me. She was frighteningly light. “Ellie, sweetheart, Daddy’s here. Wake up for me. Come on. Come on, baby.”
Nothing.
The paramedics rushed in with equipment. Someone told me to put her down. Someone else said “Possible dehydration” and “Get a glucose reading” and “How long has she been unresponsive?”
I couldn’t answer. My mind had narrowed to the heavy stillness of my daughter’s body.
A paramedic with kind eyes but a steel voice said, “Sir, I need the child on the floor now.”
I laid her down on the carpet.
In the blur that followed, people moved fast around her—oxygen mask, blood pressure cuff, thermometer, IV attempt. One medic asked a police officer to clear the room. Another asked about food intake, fluids, illness, medications. I turned toward the kitchen because some irrational part of me wanted proof this was not what it looked like.
The refrigerator held a half-empty bottle of ketchup, old takeout containers, and baking soda.
The pantry had crackers gone stale, three packets of ramen, and nothing else.
Not a loaf of bread. Not fruit. Not cereal. Not milk.
My vision flashed white for a second.
When I turned back, Noah was standing in the doorway with Mrs. Carter behind him. He was staring at his sister while a paramedic pricked his finger.
“When did she stop waking up?” the medic asked him gently.
He swallowed. “This morning. She was breathing but she wouldn’t open her eyes.”
“Was she sick before that?”
“She was hot. Since Saturday. She kept asking for juice.”
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