Page 63 of Doctor Neighbor

My mind is racing, panic rising like a tidal wave. Maddie. My baby. What's happening?

"I'm on my way," I say, already grabbing my keys and rushing out the door. "Which hospital are they taking her to?"

Sarah gives me the details, but I barely hear them. I'm running now, my heart pounding in my ears. The world around me blurs as I sprint to the school, hoping to get there before the ambulance arrives.

As I run down the sidewalk, my hands shake so badly I can barely see what's in front of me. Tears blur my vision, and I blink them away furiously. I need to focus. I need to get there before any first responders arrive.

What could have happened? She was fine this morning when I dropped her off, smiling and giggling as she waved goodbye. Was she sick? Did she hit her head on the playground equipment? Is it something worse, something I can't even bring myself to imagine?

My mind races through a thousand terrible scenarios, each one more horrifying than the last. I try to push them away, to focus on getting there, but they keep creeping back in, fueling my panic.

I've never run so fast in my life, but it feels like I'm moving through molasses, every second an eternity when my baby girl might be hurt.

I burst through the doors of Garden Montessori just as I hear the wail of sirens approaching. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe, but I force myself to focus.

"Where is she?" I demand, my eyes scanning the room frantically.

The manager, a kind-faced woman named Linda, rushes over to me. "She's in the quiet room, Cole. This way."

I follow her, my legs feeling like lead. As we enter the room, I see my little girl lying motionless on a small cot. She looks so tiny, so vulnerable. I'm at her side in an instant, grasping her small hand in mine.

"Maddie, baby, can you hear me?" I whisper, fighting back tears.

Linda speaks softly behind me. "She hasn't stirred since we found her unresponsive after her nap. We've been monitoring her breathing, but..."

The paramedics rush in, cutting off Linda's explanation. They're all business, asking rapid-fire questions as they check Maddie's vitals.

"How long has she been unresponsive?"

"Any known allergies or medical conditions?"

"What was she doing before her nap?"

I answer as best I can, my voice shaking. The lead paramedic, a woman with kind eyes, turns to me.

"We need to transport her to the hospital for further evaluation. Would you like to ride with us?"

"Yes, please," I nod, relief washing over me that I won't be separated from Maddie.

As they prepare to move her onto the stretcher, I lean in close, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

"It's going to be okay, sweetie," I whisper, praying I'm right. "Mommy's here, and we're going to get you help."

I climb into the back of the ambulance, my eyes never leaving Maddie's still form. The paramedics work swiftly, attaching monitors and checking her vitals. The beeping of machines fills the small space, each sound a reminder of how serious this is.

"We're heading to UAB Emergency," one of the EMTs informs me as we start moving.

I nod numbly, unable to tear my gaze away from my daughter. She looks so tiny, so fragile, strapped to that gurney. My heart constricts painfully in my chest as I watch them insert an IV into her tiny arm.

"Maddie, baby, Mommy's here," I whisper, reaching to touch her hand. It's cool to the touch, and I have to fight back a sob.

The paramedics continue their work, calling out numbers and medical terms I don't understand. I feel helpless and useless. All I can do is sit here and watch as they tend to my little girl.

My hands tremble as I grip the edge of my seat, trying to make sense of the flurry of activity around Maddie. The ambulance sways and jerks as we speed through the streets, each turn sending a jolt of panic through my body.

I want to ask questions, to understand what's happening, but my voice is stuck in my throat. The beeping of the machines grows more insistent, and I silently plead with whatever higher power might be listening to keep my baby safe.

My hands shake as I pull out my phone. I need to tell someone what’s happening, but the thought of explaining this to anyone feels overwhelming. Almost instinctively, I start a text to Buster.

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