Page 51 of Dr. Single Dad

I turn to find Eira already filling the bag full of nappies and milk and bottles.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

The nearest hospital is UCH and it has a specialist children’s A&E. She’ll be in the best possible hands.

Eira pulls bags onto her shoulder and then takes Guinevere in her arms.

“Keys?” she asks. “You need your phone and your coat.” She’s already wearing hers.

I nod and follow her as we head out.

Eira works quickly, strapping Guinevere into the car seat. “Do you want me to drive?” she asks. Her tone is calm and comforting but I can barely think straight.

“I think?—”

“I’ll drive,” she says. “Get in the passenger seat.”

I do as she asks, unable to do anything but leave Eira to put the pram in the boot and the bags next to Guinevere.

She gets in beside me and starts the car. She’s not panicking or flustered, but I’ve never seen her move so quick.

“Call your brother,” she says. I look at her blankly. “Jacob. Call him and ask him to meet us there. He’ll probably know the doctors in pediatric A&E. He’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

I nod and pull out my phone. “I only have twenty percent battery.” Shit. I’m not prepared for this at all.

“Plenty to call your brother, and I have my portable charger with me.”

She turns out of my underground car park and speeds onto the street.

Jacob answers the phone on the second ring.

“Guinevere is sick,” I say. “It might be meningitis.” My voice collapses as I speak the words. “Can you meet us at UCH?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he says without hesitation, and he hangs up.

I don’t even need to tell Eira to park on a double yellow line. She just pulls up opposite the hospital entrance and gets out.

Within seconds we’re at the children’s accident and emergency check-in.

The receptionist is disinterested. She can barely look up from her phone.

“I’m a doctor here. I want my daughter tested for meningitis,” I say.

“Name?” the receptionist asks.

I’m so angry at her apathy, I’m only vaguely aware of Eira giving the necessary information as I stalk around the corner, Guinevere in my arms, looking for someone who can help us.

“I need a doctor who can test my daughter for meningitis,” I call out as I head to the nurses’ station. I can’t remember the care pathways for meningitis. It’s been a minute since I did my A&E rotation. “Should we start her on steroids?” I ask. “A drip at least.”

A nurse comes towards me and guides me out of the station and into one of the triage bays. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“I’m a doctor,” I say. “Here. Research. I do—I want a doctor to see her.”

“The doctors are all seeing other patients at the moment,” the nurse says. “But they’ll want a temperature and a pulse check. Let me do that.”

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