“Yes,” I said, and the word came out smaller than I meant it to.
“This is the Emergency Department at Nationwide Children’s Hospital,” the voice continued. “We have your brother Brandon Morrison and your nephews Leighton and Matteo Rivera here in critical condition. We need you to come in as soon as possible.”
The world narrowed into a high, ringing whine.
“I am sorry,” I said, because my brain grabbed the wrong phrase. “You have who?”
She repeated their names. Brandon. Leighton. Matteo. Each name hit like a punch.
“What happened?” I asked. My voice broke on the last word.
“They presented with seizures and cardiac events within minutes of each other,” she said. “We have stabilized them for now. We are running toxicology. Are you able to come in?”
I do not remember ending the call.
I do not remember grabbing my keys.
I have no memory of the drive down 315, of the way the highway lights smeared into white streaks through tears I did not realize were falling.
I remember one thing with perfect clarity.
Sliding my car into the first open spot I could find, hands shaking so badly I could barely shift into park, and the automatic doors of the ER whooshing open like a mouth.
The smell hit me first.
Antiseptic and fear.
A nurse in bright blue scrubs walked straight up to me like she had been waiting. “Kendall?” she asked.
