My hands fumbled so badly I nearly dropped my wallet. My ID card felt absurdly small. Proof of who I was while my child sat somewhere behind doors I couldn’t get through quickly enough.
A nurse appeared a few minutes later—though time had stopped behaving like time by then—and introduced herself with careful gentleness.
“Ms. Bennett, your daughter is doing okay. She’s awake.”
I exhaled so hard it hurt.
“She was found alone in a vehicle,” the nurse continued. “Given the circumstances, this has been reported.”
“Reported?” I repeated.
“It’s standard,” she said quickly. “Because of her age and the nature of the situation, authorities had to be notified.”
Standard. As though a six-year-old locked in a hot car could ever belong in the category of routine.
She led me down a hallway lined with curtains, monitors, squeaking shoes, and low voices. When she opened the door to Ellie’s room, I saw my daughter sitting upright in the hospital bed holding a paper cup in both hands like it was the only real thing in the room. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair was damp at the temples. Her eyes were too wide.
She saw me and her whole face fell apart.
“Mom,” she said, and burst into tears.