Within minutes, I informed my supervisor, removed my gloves, washed my hands, and walked through the parking lot into freezing December air. My car greeted me with the familiar scent of antiseptic wipes and peppermint gum wrappers. The steering wheel felt painfully cold beneath trembling fingers, yet my thoughts remained sharp, focused, methodical.
I dialed Pamela first. Straight to voicemail. Then Caroline, my sister in law. Straight to voicemail.
Finally, my husband. “Hello?” he answered, voice thick with sleep and pain medication.
“Where is Keira?” I asked immediately.
Silence answered before he did. “She is with Mom.”
“Not anymore,” I replied quietly. “She is in the emergency department.”
Shock tore through his voice. “What happened?”
“I intend to find out,” I said. “Meet me at Riverside Memorial immediately, and do not contact your mother.”
When I entered the emergency department, holiday decorations felt grotesquely inappropriate beneath fluorescent lighting and clinical urgency. A nurse at reception recognized my name instantly, guiding me through curtained corridors toward a private pediatric room. My pulse thundered violently as reality prepared to fracture.