The small room was lit only by the grey drizzle of late June pressing against the double-paned window. Lily lay in the center of the high bed, looking even smaller than her ten years under the heavy white blanket.
A clear plastic oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, the elastic band cutting into her fine, dark hair.
She was holding her stuffed rabbit, Barnaby, tightly by its left ear.
“Mom,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the oxygen machine.
I sat on the edge of the mattress and took her free hand. Her skin was cool, but her fingers gripped mine with a sudden, surprising strength.
“I am here, Lily,” I said. “You are safe now.”
I tapped my gold wedding ring against the metal bedside rail, three rapid beats, before I could stop myself. It was a habit I only fell into when the air in the room felt too heavy to breathe.
“They took my backpack,” Lily whispered, her eyes wide behind her small metal-framed glasses.
“Who took it, sweetie?”
“Grandma,” Lily said. She paused, taking a shallow breath that sounded like dry paper tearing. “Mom, I told Grandma I couldn’t breathe.”
