Chapter 13: The Purple Puffer

I didn't call 911.

The closest rig was across town, and I already knew what the screen would do with her.

"Bug. Look at me. You're going to sit on my hip."

"I'm too big for hips."

"Not tonight."

I wrapped her in my grandmother's quilt and carried her down the outside stairs.

My boot hit every step wrong. I didn't care.

I buckled her into the Subaru in the front seat, upright, the window cracked for cold air.

Then I drove to Lakeshore General faster than I have ever driven anywhere.

At the red light on Kinnickinnic I called Jesse.

"Mabel's wheezing. Her puffer's empty. I'm taking her to Lakeshore. Five minutes."

I heard the rig's engine and nothing else for one second.

"I'm coming," he said.

I believed him.

The waiting room was full. A Wednesday night in February, ice on everything.

Mabel's lips were pale. She was pulling with her neck on every breath.

I put her on the kiosk stool and typed her in with my own hands.

Seven years old. Asthma. Short of breath.

The kiosk thought about it.

A slip curled out.

Your TenScore priority: 5. Estimated wait: 1 hr 40 min.

I looked up at the big screen over the desk.

Mabel was fourth.

Above her were three gold flags.

A man with a sore back. A woman with a rash. A teenager with a stubbed toe, laughing at his phone.

"Casey?" Mabel whispered. "Am I a five?"

"No, baby. That machine can't count."

The triage nurse was a new traveler I'd never met.

She looked at Mabel. She looked at the screen. She looked scared.

"I can't move her," she said. "It keeps putting them back."

"I know."

I picked Mabel up again.

Down the hall, by the double doors, I saw a silver-haired man touching his lanyard.

The hospital president.

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