“How is she?”
“She’s stabilized,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We pushed IV fluids and administered antipyretics to break the fever. When she arrived, her core temperature was 104.2°F. She was severely dehydrated. Another hour or two in that hot house, and we would have been looking at permanent neurological damage, or worse.”
He paused, looking at me with a hard, uncompromising stare. “Where are her parents? The paperwork says you’re her grandfather. I have a legal obligation to report a child brought in under these circumstances with no primary guardian.”
“Report them,” I said, my voice vibrating with a lethal, icy calm. “Report them for felony endangerment. Because her parents are currently on a luxury cruise in the Caribbean.”
Dr. Aris’s jaw tightened. “I’ll have the social worker draft the documentation immediately.”
I walked into Maya’s recovery room. She looked so incredibly small in the hospital bed, connected to a labyrinth of tubes and monitors. When she heard my footsteps, she turned her head. The milky haze was gone from her eyes, replaced by a profound, heartbreaking exhaustion.
She reached out a tiny hand. I took it, sitting on the edge of the mattress.