Chapter 1: Brad
The speedometer crept past sixty as I navigated another curve on the road towards Wrightwood General Hospital, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, Finn's small frame hunched forward in his booster seat, each wheeze cutting through the SUV's heated interior like a serrated knife.
"Almost there, buddy," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my chest. "Just keep using your breathing techniques. In through your nose, remember? Count with me. One... two..."
"Can't—" Finn's words dissolved into a coughing fit that made my foot press harder on the accelerator. The familiar route to Wrightwood General Hospital blurred past my windows—the coffee shop where we grabbed hot chocolate on Saturdays, the park where Finn had taken his first steps, the intersection where I'd gotten the call about my late wife Sarah three years ago.
Not now. Focus on Finn.
"Dad, it's... getting worse." His voice came out thin, reedy, nothing like the excited chatter that usually filled our drives.
"I know, bud. Two more minutes." I took the hospital's entrance turn sharp enough to make the tires protest, muscle memory guiding me to the emergency entrance. The red EMERGENCY sign blazed through the snowy night like a beacon I'd followed too many times.
I barely remembered parking, just scooping Finn into my arms and running. His seven-year-old body felt impossiblylight, bird-bones and labored breathing. The automatic doors whooshed open, releasing us into the controlled chaos of the ER.
"Severe asthma attack," I announced to the triage nurse, already rattling off the information they'd need. "Seven years old, forty-eight pounds, already administered rescue inhaler fifteen minutes ago with minimal improvement. No fever, no recent illness, triggered by cold air exposure during—"
"Room three," she interrupted, already waving us through. "Dr. Lisa is on tonight."
Thank God. Lisa knew Finn's history, understood the severity of his condition. I carried Finn through the familiar hallways, past crying babies and worried parents, into the small room that had become our second home.
"Hey there, Finn." Dr. Lisa appeared within seconds, her calm presence filling the space. "Having a rough night?"
Finn nodded, unable to speak through his breathing. I set him on the examination table, keeping one hand on his back, feeling each struggled breath through his thin pajama top.
"Vitals first," Lisa said to the nurse who'd materialized beside her. To me, she added, "Same trigger pattern?"
"Cold air at the evening hockey practice. He wanted to try again, and I thought—" I stopped, swallowing the guilt. "Peak flow was seventy percent before we left home, dropped to forty in the rink."
Lisa nodded, already listening to Finn's chest. "Significant wheezing bilateral. Let's start with a nebulizer treatment. Standard protocol—albuterol and ipratropium."
I watched her work with the efficiency of someone who'd done this thousands of times, but who still treated each child like they mattered. The nurse hooked Finn up to monitors, numbersand waves painting a picture of his distress in green and blue lights. Heart rate 145. Oxygen saturation 89%. Too high. Too low.
"You're being so brave," I told Finn as the nebulizer mask went over his face. His eyes, the same as Sarah's warm brown eyes, found mine above the plastic. A tear escaped down his cheek, and something inside me cracked.
He looked so small against the hospital bed. The mask seemed enormous on his face, the mist of medication fogging the clear plastic with each labored breath. His T-rex toy—the one he'd insisted on bringing—lay forgotten on the blanket beside him.
"Remember when we talked about being brave?" I asked, picking up the toy. "That sometimes being scared and doing what you must anyway is the bravest thing there is."
Finn gave a slight nod and found my hand. His fingers were cold—too cold.
Twenty minutes crawled by. The nebulizer hummed its mechanical rhythm while I memorized every beep from the monitors, every slight change in the wave patterns. Around us, the ER continued its nightly drama—a woman sobbing in the next room, someone calling for more gauze, the distant wail of arriving ambulances.
"Oxygen's coming up," the nurse announced. "Ninety-two percent."
Better, but not enough. Lisa ordered a second treatment, then oral steroids. I knew this dance, had performed it so many times I could recite the medication dosages and protocols in my sleep:
Albuterol 2.5mg nebulized every twenty minutes times three. Ipratropium 500mcg with first treatment. Prednisolone 2mg per kilogram if not improving. Magnesium sulfate if severe. Admission if no improvement after three treatments.
"Brad." Dr. Lisa's voice pulled me from my mental recitation. "He's responding well. This one wasn't as severe as last month's."
Last month. The month before. The pattern that had become our life since Sarah died three years ago, since I became the only one standing between Finn and everything that could hurt him.
"Maybe we should adjust his daily controller medication," I suggested, already knowing what she'd say.
"We're at maximum dosage for his age and weight." She squeezed my shoulder gently. "You're doing everything right."
But it didn't feel right. It felt like drowning in slow motion, watching my son struggle for each breath while I stood helplessly by. Other parents in the ER prayed to God. I prayed to peak flow meters and preventive medications, to HEPA filters and emergency action plans.
