Chapter 7: Fever

I don't remember getting dressed.

Dane drove with the scarf in one fist, running two red lights, and neither of us said anything.

He took the emergency entrance at a run, his shirt buttoned wrong.

Timmy lay on a narrow bed in the pediatric bay with a mask on his face.

His lips were the color of slate.

Bev stood beside him with two fingers on his wrist, counting.

"It's a spell," she said as we came in. "Low oxygen. They've given him a dose and they're bringing the surgeon in."

"Mom," Timmy said under the mask. His voice was thin.

I got on the bed and gathered his knees up against his chest, the way Bev had taught me, and held him.

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

"I was in a dream and I couldn't breathe."

"I know. You're breathing now."

Dane stood at the foot of the bed with his hands open at his sides.

I had never seen him look so helpless.

"Tell me what to do," he said.

"Stand where he can see you," I said.

He moved to the head of the bed.

Timmy rolled his eyes up and found him.

"You came," Timmy said.

"I came."

The surgeon arrived in a gray sweatshirt with his hair standing up.

For ten minutes the room was all hands and monitors and quiet orders.

Timmy's lips pinked a little.

His breath slowed.

When the surgeon straightened he looked grim.

"That's the first of what could be several. I want the operation moved up. I can have the room in four days."

"Do it," Dane said.

"Then the paperwork needs to be signed tonight so the team can..."

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