"Fine." She drops her bag by the door. "My stomach hurts."
"Hurts how?" I crouch down to her level, pressing the back of my hand to her forehead. Warm, but not feverish. "Like you ate something bad?"
"Like it's twisting." She wraps her arms around her middle. "Can I lie down?"
Warning bells start ringing. "Yeah, of course. Come on."
I guide her to the couch, grabbing a blanket and tucking it around her. Her face has gone from pale to slightly green, and she's curling into herself like she's trying to make the pain smaller.
"Want some water? Crackers?"
She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut.
I pull out my phone, texting Sergei.Mila's not feeling well. Stomach pain. Monitoring.
His response comes immediately.Keep me updated. Call if it gets worse.
Twenty minutes later, it gets worse.
Mila's in the bathroom, violently sick, and I'm holding her hair back while she empties her stomach into the toilet. She's shaking, tears streaming down her face, and my heart's hammering because this isn't normal food poisoning.
"It's okay,ptichka," I murmur, using Sergei's nickname without thinking. "I've got you."
She heaves again, and this time there's blood in the toilet.
My own blood turns to ice.
"Mila, sweetheart, I need you to tell me—did you eat anything strange today? Anything that tasted weird?"
She shakes her head weakly, slumping against me. "Just... lunch. From school."
Blood means internal damage. This isn't the flu.
I scoop her up and grab my phone, dialing 911 with shaking fingers while I carry her to the car.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Eight-year-old girl, severe abdominal pain, vomiting blood. I'm bringing her to the ER now, but I need them ready." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Mount Sinai Brooklyn, ten minutes out."
"Ma'am, I can send an ambulance?—"
"I'm faster." I buckle Mila into the back seat, her eyes half-closed, skin clammy. "Tell them we're coming."
I break every traffic law between our house and the hospital. Red lights, speed limits, all of it ignored while Mila whimpers in the back seat, and I keep one hand reached back to hold hers.
"Stay with me, sweetheart. We're almost there."
The ER entrance appears and I'm out of the car before it's fully stopped, yanking open the back door and lifting Mila into my arms. A nurse sees us and immediately waves us through.
"Vomiting blood, severe abdominal pain, started forty minutes ago," I rattle off as they guide us to a bed. "She's eight, no known allergies, no prior medical conditions."
They take her from my arms, and I feel the loss like a physical wound. Doctors swarm, asking questions I answer on autopilot while they hook her up to monitors and start an IV.
"Are you her mother?" A doctor with kind eyes asks.
"Stepmother." The word feels strange but right. "Her father's on his way."
"We need parental consent for treatment?—"
