My mind tried to build scenarios, and each one was worse than the last. Lucy fell. Lucy got hit. Lucy swallowed something. Lucy—
The hospital doors slid open with a soft, polite whisper, and that sound made me want to scream. Inside, everything was too bright, too clean, too controlled. The air smelled like disinfectant and faint coffee. People moved in straight lines, speaking quietly. A child with a bandaged arm sat near the entrance eating a popsicle as if hospitals were ordinary.
I went to the front desk.
“I’m Anna Walker,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice. “My daughter, Lucy— I was told she was brought in.”
The receptionist looked at her screen and then at me with a kind of practiced compassion. “Yes, Ms. Walker. She’s here. She’s stable.”
Stable again. Like the universe had decided that word would be my new enemy.
“She’s in Pediatrics,” the woman continued. “We’re running some checks. A nurse will come speak with you.”
“A nurse?” I echoed. “I need to see her.”
“I understand.” The receptionist’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes told me she had seen this kind of panic before. “We just need you to fill out these forms. And I’ll need your ID.”