Nothing.
I wait five minutes, pacing the room, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.
I call. No answer.
I wait five more minutes. Then I type again.
Esme’s really sick. And I’m scared. Can you call?
He calls immediately.
“Rhea?”
The sound of his voice brings tears immediately.
“She’s really sick,” I say, feeling my emotions rise to the surface. “It’s RSV. They’ve admitted her. She’s struggling to breathe and the fever won’t break, and I just—” My voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. Calm, but intense. “Just keep breathing yourself, and stay with her. I’m going to make some calls. See what I can do. Don’t go anywhere.”
He hangs up. I don’t move.
Fifteen minutes later, a nurse wheels in a laptop on a rolling cart and sets it up near the foot of the bed. Dr. Harris follows, looking irritated.
“The specialist consult you requested,” the nurse says, tapping a few keys. “With Boston Children’s.”
I glance up, confused. Then the screen flashes on, she logs into a Zoom link, and there is Spencer’s face.
Not calling from his phone.He’s on the video call. Sleeves rolled. Jaw tight. Looking like a man who’s already made twelve phone calls and isn’t done yet.
Then, beside him, another window opens: a pediatric specialist from Boston Children’s. Gray-haired, authoritative, his voice low and calm. Dr. Levinson.
Dr. Harris stands arms crossed. Clearly not thrilled.
“Dr. Levinson,” the man says, nodding at the screen, “I understand we’re consulting on an eighteen-month old female, positive for RSV, admitted tonight with respiratory distress and persistent fever?”
Dr. Harris nods, guarded. “Yes. She’s receiving supportive oxygen and fluids. She had a mild improvement after the nebulizer but is still trending high on respiratory rate and temp. I was considering a transfer to Hanover if she worsens overnight.”
“We’re seeing a high RSV spike here as well,” Dr. Levinson says. “But we’ve had success managing similar cases with a high-frequency nasal cannula, paired with nebulized epinephrine and an IV corticosteroid protocol. Your facility—do you have high-frequency cannulas on-site?”
Dr. Harris’s jaw ticks. “No. We don’t keep them stocked.”
“And the epi delivery system?”
“We use albuterol,” he says. “The protocol you’re suggesting isn’t exactly standard.”
Dr. Levinson’s voice stays calm. “No. It’s not standard. But it’s effective.”
I shift in the chair beside Esme’s bed, feeling every word sink into my skin.
Dr. Harris turns to me. “We can stabilize her and transfer her to Hanover by ambulance if needed. I know that hospital, I know the staff. They’re good,” he glances at Spencer on the screen,.
“Well, good isn’t good enough,” Spencer snipes.
Dr. Harris stiffens. “Mr. Devereaux, with respect, I’m the one in the room with this child. And we’re doing everything that can reasonably be done.”
“And if she’s not improving, then it’s not enough, is it?” Spencer responds, sharp and short.
“Look,” Dr. Levinson jumps in, “I’ve secured a PICU bed for her at Boston Children’s, and a medivac helicopter is en route already. It will land within the hour. I understand your pad is in the parking lot.”
