My hands fumbled in my wallet. My ID card felt like a joke. A tiny rectangle that proved my name while my child sat behind doors I couldn’t open fast enough.
A nurse appeared a few minutes later— or maybe it was longer; time had stopped obeying rules. She introduced herself, her tone gentle but careful, as if she were walking on glass.
“Ms. Walker,” she said, “your daughter is doing okay. She’s awake.”
I exhaled so hard it made my chest ache.
“She was found alone in a vehicle,” the nurse continued, and every word after that seemed to tilt the world. “Given the circumstances, this has been reported.”
“Reported,” I repeated, my mouth dry.
“It’s standard,” she said quickly, as if she could soften the impact by naming procedure. “Because of her age and the nature of the situation, we’re required to notify authorities.”
Authorities. Police. The man on the phone. The registered vehicle.
My knees felt weak. I had to grip the counter to steady myself.
“Where is she?” I asked.
The nurse nodded toward a hallway. “Come with me.”