I walked through the front door. “Lily? Honey, I got the cake!”
Silence.
“Sarah?” I called out.
I walked into the living room. Sarah was sitting on the sofa, watching a reality TV show, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her son, Tyler—a spoiled ten-year-old who mirrored his mother’s attitude—was playing video games on the floor.
“Where’s Lily?” I asked, setting the cake box on the counter.
Sarah didn’t look away from the TV. “Outside.”
“Outside?” I frowned. “It’s forty degrees out there, Sarah. Where outside?”
“Patio,” she mumbled. “She was coughing. I didn’t want Tyler to get sick. He has soccer tryouts tomorrow.”
A cold spike of adrenaline hit my chest. It was the same feeling I got when an IED detector went off.
I ran to the back of the house. The sliding glass doors leading to the patio were locked. The curtains were drawn.
I ripped the curtains back.
Lily was huddled in the corner of the stone patio, curled into a tight ball. She was wearing only her thin cotton pajamas. Her skin was flushed a dangerous, blotchy red. She was shivering so violently that her teeth were audibly chattering even through the double-paned glass.
“Lily!” I roared.
I fumbled with the lock. It jammed. Sarah had engaged the security bar.
I slammed my shoulder into the frame, nearly shattering the glass, until the bar popped loose. I slid the door open and dropped to my knees beside my daughter.
“Daddy?” she wheezed. Her voice was thin, reedy. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. “Auntie Sarah said I have germs. She said I can’t come in.”
I touched her forehead. It was burning. Radiating heat like a furnace. At least 104 degrees.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Hey!”
I looked up. Sarah had appeared on the balcony above the patio, looking down at us. She was holding a large, yellow plastic cleaning bucket.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I screamed, my voice cracking with a rage I hadn’t felt in years. “She’s sick! You locked a sick child outside in the freezing cold?”
“Stop whining!” Sarah yelled back. “She wouldn’t stop crying! She’s burning up? Fine. Here’s a home remedy.”
She tipped the bucket.
Splash.
It wasn’t a sprinkle. It was gallons of water. And it was ice water. I saw the cubes hitting the stone as the deluge crashed down on us.
The shock was instantaneous. The freezing water soaked Lily’s pajamas instantly, plastering them to her feverish skin.
Lily screamed. It wasn’t a loud scream—she didn’t have the air for it. It was a weak, terrifying, gurgling sound of pure thermal shock.
“Fastest way to break a fever!” Sarah laughed, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Now take that burden and get out. Go to the VA hospital or wherever you people go. Don’t come back until she’s not contagious. I’m not having my Easter weekend ruined by a plague rat.”
She turned and walked back inside, sliding the balcony door shut.
Time stopped.
I looked down at my daughter. She had stopped shivering. That was bad. That meant her body was giving up. Her lips were turning blue.
The Soldier woke up.
