Martinez’s eyes flicked to Jennifer briefly, then back to me. “How much?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice strained. “Jennifer said ‘a few,’ but she didn’t specify.”
Martinez exchanged a look with his partner. “Okay, let’s get her stabilized and to the hospital. We can sort this out there.”
The shorter paramedic, whose name tag read “Wong,” gently but swiftly lifted Lily onto a stretcher that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. They worked with a quiet synchronicity, a practiced dance in the theater of emergency.
Jennifer’s eyes followed them, her face inscrutable. I wanted to shake her, to demand answers or apologies or something, but my world had narrowed to the fragile weight of my daughter and the urgent need to keep her safe.
As they wheeled Lily toward the door, I followed closely, my mind racing. I felt Jennifer’s hand on my arm, unexpectedly gentle. “Daniel,” she said, her voice almost pleading.
I turned, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw a crack in her composure. A flicker of something that might have been regret or fear. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind the same cold mask.
“Coming to the hospital?” I asked, my voice hoarse with emotion.
She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll drive. You go with them.”
I didn’t wait for more. I climbed into the ambulance beside Lily, the doors closing with a metallic clunk that seemed to seal me into a different world.
The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing lights and the rhythmic beep of medical equipment. Martinez stayed beside Lily, checking her vitals, offering quiet reassurances. I clung to the sound of his voice, grounding myself in the calm competence of his presence.
At the hospital, everything moved too fast and too slow at once. Lily was whisked away by a team of doctors and nurses, leaving me in a sterile waiting room that smelled of antiseptic and fear. I sank into a chair, my head in my hands, feeling the weight of the day crash over me like a tidal wave.
Time became elastic, stretching and contracting in ways that made no sense. I stared at the clock, its hands inching forward with agonizing slowness, each tick a hammer blow against my sanity.
Eventually, a doctor approached, wearing the practiced calm of someone used to delivering news, both good and bad. “Mr. Cooper?” he asked.
I stood up too quickly, the room tilting for a moment. “Yes. How is she?”
“She’s stable,” he said, with a small, reassuring smile. “We managed to get her to come around, and she’s responding well. We’ll need to keep her for observation, but I think she’s out of immediate danger.”
Relief hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He nodded, his expression understanding. “She’s a strong little girl. You can see her in a bit, once we’ve got her settled.”
I sat back down, the adrenaline fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Jennifer arrived shortly after, her face a careful mask. We exchanged few words, the air between us heavy with unspoken accusations and unresolved questions.
But for now, all that mattered was Lily. I focused on that, holding onto it like a lifeline in the storm.
Because whatever came next—whatever answers I needed from Jennifer, whatever changes lay ahead—could wait. My daughter was safe, and that was enough. For now.