“What?” Amanda said, her voice flattening.
“She’s in the hospital,” I repeated. “Police called me. I’m here with her.”
“That’s not possible,” Amanda said immediately, the way people deny reality when it threatens them. “We parked in the shade. The window was open. She was fine.”
“She was alone,” I said. “A stranger had to call for help.”
A different silence now. Heavier.
“She’s— she’s fine, though, right?” Amanda asked, and there it was— not concern, not horror, but calculation. “I mean, she’s not actually hurt.”
I closed my eyes. “Define fine,” I said.
“She’s alive,” I said, because I needed to say it aloud.
Amanda exhaled, audible through the phone. And then— like flipping a switch— her fear evaporated and was replaced with irritation.
“So nothing really happened,” she said quickly. “See? You always do this. You always blow things out of proportion.”
“She was locked in a car for hours,” I said, my voice low.
“But she’s okay,” Amanda insisted. “You said it yourself.”
The nurse in the room glanced over, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if she could sense the shape of the conversation.