Calls made. Specialists looped in. The helicopter en route. Boston Children’s is standing by.
And now? Now all I can do is get myself there. And wait some more.
It’s late. Traffic is light, which is good because I’m driving like a maniac—cutting corners, gunning through yellow lights, hands clenched so tightly on the wheel they ache.
Every time I blink, I see her.
Esme.
Pale and wheezing in that hospital bed.
The weight of her chest struggling with every breath.
Rhea sitting beside her, her face tight and tear-streaked, trying to stay strong. Trying to hold it all together.
I should’ve been there already.If I’d known…
I don’t let myself finish the thought.
I take the Pike toward Boston Children’s like it’s a runway, the GPS ETA ticking down in tense little minutes, none of them fast enough.
Every second stretches like wire. The only thing keeping me from losing it is the single thought running through my head on repeat:
My daughter is fighting for her life.
I skid into the lobby, out of breath, half-drenched in sweat and stress.
The woman behind the desk looks up—calm. Too calm.
"Hi,” I say, already reaching for my wallet and credentials. “A medivac just landed—Esme Sinclair is on her way. RSV. She's being transferred from Maplewick General. They’re taking her to the PICU.”
“And you are . . .” She looks at me with a hint of suspicion.
“Spencer Devereaux.” I tell her.
“Relationship?”
Relationship? But the words are out of my mouth before my brain can overthink.
“I’m her father,” I say, and as I hear the words, I feel something in me physically shift.
The woman has no idea I’ve just claimed Esme as my daughter for the first time. She doesn’t flinch. All business. Just taps on her keyboard.
I wait, heart hammering, suddenly terrified that someone is going to ask for proof. ID. Guardianship. Paperwork I don’t have. Someone’s going to say I have no right to see her. No access. No standing.
“Her mother is in the chopper with her,” I add. “I need to see them both the minute they arrive,”
“And can you please let Dr. Levinson know I’m here? We had a consult earlier, remote connection with Dr. Harris at the rural facility.”
She glances at the screen again. Nods and types some more. So fucking calm I can hardly stand it.
“Okay. I’ve sent a note to the floor to let Dr. Levinson know.”
I exhale.
“You’re going to go down that corridor,” she says, gesturing like this is routine. Like this isn’t the scariest moment of my life.
“Take your first left. Look for the central elevator bank. Go to the 9th floor. PICU is immediately to your right once the doors open. There will be someone to direct you when she arrives.”
