Chapter 7: The Kitchen Floor

I ran the whole way, in rented skates I forgot to take off.

The church kitchen sat at the back of the fellowship hall, a long steel room with a tiled floor.

Hazel Reichert lay on her side between the sink and the stove.

A mop was still in her hand.

A pastor in a gray sweater knelt over her, frozen, saying, "I don't know, she just fell."

"Move, please."

I dropped to my knees and put two fingers against her throat.

Her skin burned.

Her pulse was fast and thin, one hundred and thirty, and her lips had a blue tint at the edges.

"Hazel. Hazel, it's Nina. Can you hear me?"

Her eyelids fluttered.

"I'm fine," she mumbled. "I have to finish the cranberry jars."

"You're not fine. You're on the floor."

I laid my ear near her mouth.

Every breath had a wet rattle in it, short and shallow.

Fever, fast heart, bad lungs.

I had seen this a hundred times in the ER.

It happens to women who work through pneumonia because nobody covers their shift.

Caleb skidded in behind me, his face the color of paper.

"Mom!"

"Get her feet up," I said. "Coats. Every coat you can find, on top of her. And hold her hand and keep her talking."

He did it without a word.

I pulled out my phone.

"Don't."

The voice came from the doorway.

Dale stood there in his quilted vest, breathing hard, his hair damp from running.

He had gotten word fast.

I wondered who had called him first.

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