Carol’s eyes welled with tears, but she kept her foot on the gas. “He’s only three years old.”
“There was bottled water in the fridge. Emily always blows things out of proportion. Three days isn’t going to kill anybody.”
Abruptly, Carol hauled the SUV over to the curb so hard my shoulder slammed against the passenger door. For a split second, I thought she was going to lose it and scream.
Instead, she said very quietly, “Fine. Call me later.”
Michael’s tension evaporated. “That’s all I needed. Oh, and Mom? Don’t go near the house.”
The line went dead.
Carol stared blankly at the dark display, then slapped a hand over her mouth and broke down sobbing.
I didn’t offer any comfort. I couldn’t.
From the back seat, Leo let out a weak, pitiful sound, and that single noise settled every priority that mattered. Carol wiped her cheeks, threw the vehicle back into drive, and hit the road.
At the emergency room, nurses whisked Leo out of my arms almost instantly. His temperature was dangerously high and he was severely dehydrated, but the attending physician assured us we had made it just in the nick of time. He needed IV fluids, heavy-duty fever reducers, and close observation.
