Chapter 2
Sophia's fever was 104.
That was the first thing the pediatrician told me.
The second was worse.
“She should have been brought in yesterday.”
Tommy lowered his head.
“I tried.”
I turned.
“What?”
Grant was still seated on the floor between two wheelchairs.
Teresa stood beside the damaged reading kiosk.
Neither looked surprised.
I looked back at Tommy.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Here?”
He nodded.
“Who stopped you?”
His eyes moved toward Grant.
Grant laughed.
“This again?”
I stared.
Tommy whispered:
“He said babies don't get free rooms.”
Grant rolled his eyes.
“He came in after midnight with no adult.”
“He is eight.”
“Exactly.”
Grant looked at me.
“You want me admitting random street children because they walk through a door?”
“Yes.”
That stopped him.
I stepped closer.
“This is a pediatric hospital.”
“Not a shelter.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the treatment corridor.
“It is where sick children get treated.”
Grant laughed.
“Treatment costs money.”
“I pay for the indigent pediatric fund.”
His smile weakened.
“Partially.”
“Enough.”
Teresa finally spoke.
“Richard, you're seeing five minutes of a much larger problem.”
I looked at her.
“Explain.”
“Families come here with stories.”
Her mouth tightened.
“No insurance. No money. No father. No food.”
She shrugged.
“Everybody wants something.”
Tommy stared at the floor.
Teresa noticed.
Then smiled.
“See?”
I felt my jaw tighten.
She continued.
“He knows exactly how to make adults feel guilty.”
Tommy's little hands curled.
“He brought a feverish infant.”
“And?”
There.
One word.
And.
As if Sophia's breathing were an inconvenience.
Teresa walked closer.
“Children learn quickly when begging works.”
I stared.
“Did begging work last night?”
She said nothing.
Tommy answered.
“No.”
I crouched.
“What happened?”
“Mr. Grant said I could clean.”
Grant laughed.
“I offered him a solution.”
Tommy continued.
“The basement laundry.”
My head lifted.
“How long?”
He looked at his hands.
“Until morning.”
Silence.
The pediatrician stopped writing.
I stood.
“You made an eight-year-old work overnight before you'd treat his sister.”
Grant's face hardened.
“He wanted charity.”
“No.”
I stared.
“He wanted medicine.”
Teresa sighed.
“He had nothing to trade.”
I looked at her.
“A sick baby does not trade.”
She smiled faintly.
“That attitude is why families take advantage of rich men.”
Tommy whispered:
“I had coins.”
Grant laughed.
The boy flinched.
“Six dollars and eighty cents.”
Grant shook his head.
“He counted it three times like that changed anything.”
I stepped toward him.
His smile weakened.
“What did you tell him?”
Grant shrugged.
“That if he had enough energy to beg, he had enough energy to work.”
The pediatrician looked disgusted.
Good.
Grant saw it.
“What?”
He snapped.
“Everyone loves the poor child until someone has to pay.”
I stared.
“I pay.”
Silence.
“Which means either you have forgotten whose hospital this is…”
I held up Maria's photograph.
“…or you were counting on me never finding out.”
Teresa's eyes flicked toward the tin.
There.
Again.
The box.
I looked at Tommy.
“Where is your mother?”
His face changed.
“She died.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Six weeks.”
“What happened?”
Tommy looked at Teresa.
Then Grant.
“She got sick after Sophia came.”
The room went quiet.
“What hospital?”
Tommy pointed at the floor.
“This one.”
May you like
Teresa went white.
And suddenly Sophia wasn't the first Martinez child they had turned away.
