Chapter 13
The phone rang and nobody moved for a second.
It was the wall phone by the sink, the one with the long curly cord. The RN had been holding my hand, her white glove warm against my fingers, and when it rang her whole body tightened. She didn't let go right away. She looked at me first, then at the doctor closest to the bed.
He nodded once. She picked it up.
"This is RN Daniels, ER Bay Three," she said. Her voice was steady but I could hear her breathing. "Yes. Thank you for calling back."
Everyone went quiet. The older woman behind the rail held the braided girl close. The Navy man stood by the EMERGENCY doors with his arms crossed, like he was trying to look calm. The doctor with the medication box still had it in his hand, that little white box with the blue and yellow label. I watched his thumb on the edge of it.
The nurse put the phone on speaker.
A woman's voice came through, clear and flat. "This is County Dispatch confirming welfare check at 313 Oak Street, Apartment 313. Entry was made at 14:42. We found unsafe conditions as reported. Mold exposure, no running water. Two minors present. Adult tenant not on site."
My chest hurt and I breathed harder through the cannula. The RN squeezed my hand twice, quick.
"Can you repeat the address for the room?" she said.
"313 Oak Street," the voice said. "Mold count flagged last week. Building manager confirmed leak in 313 never remediated."
The doctor who'd said I was delirious stared at the phone. His mouth opened a little. He looked at me, then at the Navy man.
The RN didn't wait. She turned to the other doctor, the one holding the box. "Can you read the contraindications on that again? Out loud."
He frowned. "We already checked—"
"Read it," she said. She wasn't loud. She was quiet and sure.
He turned the box over. His finger traced the small print. "'Do not administer if patient has known mold spore allergy or prolonged exposure to environmental mold. May cause severe respiratory reaction.'"
The room felt colder. The fluorescent light buzzed over us.
He looked up at my chart on the computer. He typed fast. Then he stopped. "She's flagged. Allergy field says environmental mold. Entered at intake last month. Pediatrician note."
I remembered the itchy rash on my arms. How Mom had said it was just dry skin. How my throat had closed a little at night in that apartment.
The Navy man uncrossed his arms. "Now hold on. That's— that apartment was cleared. I had paperwork."
The RN kept the phone on speaker and looked at him. "Who had paperwork?"
"My sister. Her building," he said, and his voice got faster. "She told me maintenance fixed the leak in 313. I believed her. I didn't know kids were still in there."
"You told us she was safe at home," the older woman said from behind the bed. Her voice shook. "You said 313 was fine."
"I thought it was," he said. He put his hands up, palms out. "I was trying to handle it without making a scene. I didn't want CPS— I didn't want anyone—"
"You wanted it quiet," the RN said.
She let go of my hand for just a second to grab the rolling chart. She pulled it close to the bed and started writing, her pen moving fast. I could see the top line: 14:44 — callback received, Dispatch confirms hazard at 313 Oak St. Apt 313. Matches patient nonverbal report.
She looked down at me. "Honey, show me again. Show me what you told me."
I lifted my right hand. It shook a little under the blanket. I held up three fingers, then one, then three. 313.
She mirrored me, holding up three, one, three with her gloved hand so the doctors could see. "At 14:10 patient signaled 3-1-3 repeatedly via fingers. At 14:22 patient confirmed location was her residence. This call confirms that signal was accurate."
The doctor with the box set it down on the tray like it was hot. He pushed it away from my bed. "We need to switch protocol," he said to the other doctor. "No steroids from this box. Nebulizer, O2, allergy-safe course. Get pediatrics down here."
The other doctor nodded and stepped back to the hallway, talking low into his own phone.
The Navy man stood near the doors and didn't move. The red EMERGENCY sign glowed over his head. "I didn't hurt her," he said, quieter now. "I just didn't check. I should've checked."
Nobody answered him right away. The braided girl peeked over the rail at me and I blinked at her. The RN capped her pen and put her hand back over mine.
May you like
"You're on record, sweetheart," she whispered to me, so only I could hear. "You were right the whole time."
The phone on the wall was still on speaker, hissing soft static, and for the first time since I held up my fingers, I felt the air in the room change. They believed me.
