Page 134 of When We Burn

“Yeah, I wanna go home. Okay?”

“You got it.”

I don’t even bother to turn off any lights or anything. I just lock the door behind me and, carrying my sweet girl, hurry across the street and get us inside and to the couch, where she immediately relaxes and snuggles into a blanket.

“Does that feel better?”

“Yeah.” She looks a little pale, so I check her temperature, but she doesn’t feel hot.

“Baby, does your tummy hurt?”

“No.”

“Does it feel like you want to throw up?”

“I don’t know.” She starts to cry big, sad tears, and my heart aches for her, so I sit with her and stroke her hair softly. “Why do I always feel bad?”

“I wish with my whole heart that we knew.” I kiss her head and murmur to her how special she is. “You’re so sweet, pumpkin. I’m so sorry.”

She takes a long, deep breath. “Maybe we could make cookies?”

My eyebrows climb. “You’re feeling better?”

“A little. Maybe if we make cookies, I won’t think about feeling bad.”

Ah, distraction. I’ve used it myself often.

“We can do that. But, why don’t you lie here while I make the dough, and then you can help me get it in the oven if you’re feeling well enough?”

She nods, and I get her settled by herself on the couch, tucked in with the TV remote, and then I get towork in the kitchen, assembling the dough for simple snickerdoodles.

Birdie likes to roll the balls of dough in the cinnamon sugar before they go on the cookie sheets.

When I glance up to ask Birdie to come help me, I see that she’s fallen asleep, so I leave her be and continue with the cookies. When the third tray is in the oven, Birdie wakes up and moans.

“Hey, baby.” I hurry over to her, and when I touch her hair, it’s wet with sweat, but she still doesn’t feel hot. “Honey, how do you feel?”

“Icky.” She swallows hard, like she’s trying not to throw up, so I run and get a big bowl, just in case. “Why is the room moving?”

“Are you dizzy?”

“Yeah.”

I take a deep breath. She’s never been this bad when I’ve been alone with her. I can’t call Bridger because he’s in the middle of a huge fire, so I grab my phone and call the only other person I know who can help me.

“Hello?” Blake says.

“Hey, it’s Dani. Blake, I’m sorry to bother you, but Birdie isn’t okay. Bridger’s still gone, and?—”

“I’m on my way,” he says. “Be there in less than ten, okay?”

“Thank you so much.” Relief washes through me as he hangs up the phone, and I turn to my little girl. “Uncle Blake is gonna come help us out. I don’t like that you’re so sick.”

“I don’t like it either,” she says, her voice so achingly small. “Will you hold me?”

“Of course, honey.” I sit next to her, and she scrambles into my lap and rests her little head against my chest.

Birdie’s five, but she’s small for her age. I know that she was a preemie and that she’s still catching up to other kids her age, and that makes her feel all the more fragile.

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