CHAPTER 2: THE AMBULANCE LIES
The sirens didn’t feel real at first.
They sounded distant, like they belonged to another life—one where children didn’t foam at the mouth in your arms at 2 a.m.
But Eva was real.
Too real.
Her small body jerked again in my arms as I held her sideways on the living room floor, exactly like I had been trained to do years ago in a hospital orientation I never thought I’d need again.
“Stay with me, baby,” I whispered, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “Stay with me.”
Her breathing was uneven—sharp, broken pieces of air that didn’t belong together.
Jack was on the phone with 911, his voice shaking.
“She’s eight—she’s seizing—she just started—please hurry—”
Marlene stood near the couch like a statue that didn’t know it was supposed to move.
“This is what happens when children are spoiled and overdramatic,” she said again, but her voice had started to thin.
Not confidence.
Defense.
I didn’t look at her.
If I looked at her, I might not stop myself from doing something I could never undo.
Eva’s body suddenly stiffened again.
“Again,” I muttered, adjusting her position. “Another one.”
Jack dropped beside me. “Is she—”
“She’s seizing,” I said sharply. “Don’t touch her head.”
The front door burst open seconds later.
Paramedics flooded in with controlled urgency—bright uniforms slicing through the darkness of our living room like emergency light itself.
“What happened?” one of them asked immediately.
I tried to answer, but my voice cracked.
“She was fine,” I said. “Then she said she had something to tell her grandmother, and—”
My eyes flicked involuntarily to Marlene.
The paramedic followed my gaze.
Something subtle changed in his expression.
Not judgment.
Assessment.
They placed Eva on the stretcher with practiced precision. One checked her airway, another started oxygen.
“Was there any medication?” one asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing. She was just—she was fine before—”
But even as I said it, something cold started forming in my chest.
Because she hadn’t been fine.
Not for days.
I just hadn’t understood what I was seeing.
The paramedic leaned in closer to Eva’s face.
Then his voice dropped.
“Did she ingest anything tonight?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She had dinner. Milk before bed.”
That sentence landed wrong as soon as I said it.
Marlene shifted slightly behind me.
Just enough.
The paramedic looked up.
“Milk?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “She drinks warm milk before bed. Every night.”
A pause.
Then—
“We need a toxicology screen,” he said.
My stomach dropped.
“Why?” Jack asked.
The paramedic didn’t answer directly.
May you like
He just said:
“Because this doesn’t look like a one-time event.”
