"Bonnie. Hey. Hey, baby."
Her eyes were on mine, but her eyes weren't registering.
She slid sideways.
I came around the table without remembering how. My arm was under her shoulders before she was going to hit the chair. I lifted her. I lowered her to the floor gently, the back of her head in my palm, her body going down the length of my forearm.
Pickles got out of the way without a sound.
Her chest was rising and falling. The rising and falling were small. I put two fingers against the side of her neck. The pulse was there — fast. Her eyes were open.
I had my phone out and dialed nine-one-one with my thumb.
The dispatcher picked up. I gave her my information — the address, the apartment number, my daughter's name, my daughter's age, my daughter's heart condition — in the calm, steady voice I didn't, in this particular moment, recognize as mine.
"Ma'am, is your daughter conscious?"
"Yes."
"Is she breathing?"
"Yes."
"How long has the episode been going?"
"Three minutes. The medication hasn't worked yet."
"Stay on the line. Help is on the way."
Bonnie's eyes came back.
I was holding her hand. I hadn't been aware that I had taken her hand until I felt her fingers move. Her fingers gripped mine, her eyes came up, and the lights behind her eyes turned back on.
"Mommy."
"Hey. Hey, baby. I'm here."
"What happened?"
"You went a little dizzy. We are okay. We are on the floor."
"Why are we on the floor?"
"Because you fainted, baby."
"Mommy. Mommy, my chest hurts."
"I know, baby. I know. I called the ambulance."
"I don't want the ambulance."
"It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here. I called them. We are going to the hospital just to be sure you’re okay. Dr. Reyes is going to be there."
She started to cry. The crying was small and quiet because her chest couldn't do a big one. Her tears went sideways down her face onto the kitchen floor.
There was a knock at the door.
"Sabrina?" It was Mrs. Park.
