Micah didn’t speak. He just pointed a trembling finger toward the sofa.
Three-year-old Elsie lay curled beneath a heavy winter blanket, despite it being a warm spring afternoon. Her face was paper-pale, yet two angry red flags of fever burned on her cheeks. Her lips were cracked, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged hitches.
“Elsie,” I breathed, pulling the blanket back.
I pressed my palm to her forehead and jerked it back instinctively. The heat radiating off her skin was terrifying. It felt like touching a radiator. I scooped her up immediately. Her head lolled back against my shoulder with zero resistance, her limbs heavy and entirely limp.
“We’re leaving. Right now,” I said, forcing a terrifyingly false calm into my voice. “Shoes on, Micah. No questions. You stick right by my leg.”
He scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over his own sneakers. “Is she just sleeping, Dad?”
I swallowed the lump of pure bile rising in my throat. “She’s sick, buddy. But we’re getting help.”
As I turned toward the door, my eyes caught the kitchen. It was a tableau of neglect that would burn itself into my retinas forever. An empty cereal box lay crushed on the counter. The sink was a mountain of foul-smelling dishes. The refrigerator door was slightly cracked; inside, there was only half a bottle of ketchup and a withered lemon. No milk. No bread. Nothing a six-year-old could reach or prepare. Beside the sink sat a small, plastic sippy cup with a dark, dried ring of juice crusted at the bottom.
I turned away before the rage could blind me. I practically carried them both to the car, ushering Micah into the back and strapping Elsie into her car seat with shaking hands. I hit the hazard lights, slammed the gas, and sped toward Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital.
