Brooks checked the woman’s neck for a pulse, then leaned closer to listen for breathing.
“She’s alive,” she said urgently. “Barely. Marcus, call EMS.”
He was already on the radio.
“Dispatch, upgrade to critical medical. Adult female unconscious with shallow breathing. Two children on scene. Send paramedics immediately.”
The little boy continued nudging the woman’s shoulder, too small to understand that his efforts couldn’t wake her.
Sophie stood frozen in the doorway, shaking from the cold and fear.
Hale walked toward her slowly.
“You did the right thing,” he told her softly.
Her red eyes searched his face. “Is she dead?”
“No,” he said firmly. “She’s not.”
Brooks began checking the woman’s breathing and pupils. The prescription bottle showed antibiotics prescribed to Rachel Turner, age thirty-one.
The house told the rest of the story.
A pot of macaroni had burned black on the stove. The refrigerator held almost nothing — a half carton of milk, a bottle of mustard, and a pack of cheap hot dogs.
On the counter lay hospital discharge papers.
Diagnosis: severe pneumonia.
Recommended hospital admission declined due to childcare concerns.
Hale read the note twice.