Esme’s not herself.
It starts as a sniffle. A clingier-than-usual morning. Warm cheeks. The kind of low-grade fever you try not to overreact to.
I call in sick.
She’s curled against me on the couch, damp curls sticking to her forehead, fingers tangled in my sweatshirt. I press a cool washcloth to her face, rub tiny circles on her back, and try to coax her to drink electrolytes in tiny sips.
“Good girl,” I whisper, even though she doesn’t respond.
By mid-afternoon, she’s barely opened her eyes.
The thermometer reads 101.4, but it’s not the number that scares me—it’s the way she’s breathing. A little faster than normal. Like her chest is working harder than it should.
I try not to panic.
I Google symptoms. I type questions into ChatGPT. I scroll through forums and parenting sites, looking for reassurance—something that tells me I’m overreacting.
I text Laney, forgetting she’s at her aunt’s funeral in Vermont.
We’re still on the road, babe. Back tomorrow night. You okay?
I say yes. But I am not okay.
By nightfall, Esme’s fever spikes—103.7—and her breaths are shallow, rapid, too tight in her little chest. She makes a soft wheezing sound when she exhales, and it shreds me.
I don’t wait.
I bundle her in a blanket, pull on a sweatshirt over my tank top, and grab my keys. The drive to Maplewick General is five minutes. I take every corner like a first responder.
The ER is mostly quiet, thank God.
A nurse takes one look at Esme and rushes us past the check-in desk. Within ten minutes, we’re in a dim room with oxygen monitors, IV prep, and a man in a white coat who introduces himself as Dr. Harris.
He’s kind but focused, his brows drawn as he listens to her chest and orders a nebulizer treatment.
“RSV is everywhere right now,” he says. “We’re seeing a lot of this in toddlers—she’s right at the danger age.”
I nod, numb, barely breathing. “What does that mean?Danger age?”
He glances at the monitor, then back at me.
“Under two is when we worry most. Their airways are smaller. They can’t clear mucus efficiently. RSV can turn fast—especially if there’s a fever, labored breathing, or signs of dehydration.”
I look down at Esme. Her lips are slightly parted. Her chest rising and falling too quickly.
“She’s still responsive,” he adds gently. “That’s good. But she’s working hard. And if she tires out…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
I sit on the edge of the gurney, holding her hand as they wheel her upstairs. She’s limp, flushed, eyes glassy. Her tiny body looks even smaller against all the machinery.
I text Laney again. No reply this time. I’m alone.
My hands are shaking.
And for once—I don’t try to power through it. I have no urge to be independent or strong or brave. I pull out my phone, open Spencer’s contact, and send one message:
Can you call me? It’s important.
