you sort of left out the part about why you hightailed it out of the ER the second you saw them.”
“It’s been a while.”
From the twitch in his jaw when he clamped his lips tight, Saoirse guessed “a while” would be putting it mildly. She rolled her finger in the “keep it coming” move, surprised she’d already extracted this much information. Too bad she hadn’t been this good at “torture” when she’d told her fiancé she couldn’t have children and he’d said he was fine with it. How could she have been stupid enough to believe him?
“I’ve been stationed overseas for a long time now. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to do my holas after a fifteen-year absence and then...pum!” He exploded his fist into an outstretched hand. “Vamanos. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but my ‘boss’ is a bit of a whip-cracker,” he replied neutrally, although his arched eyebrow dared her to challenge his answer. “Your turn!”
It was pretty clear she’d been given all the information she was going to get. Which, to be fair, was more than she had anticipated. An Irish man would’ve run for the hills if forced to talk about himself. Vegas-style or otherwise. Which was probably why her ex had chosen the moment before he’d been meant to say “I do” to say “I can’t” and had legged it out of the church. It wasn’t like she’d given him fair warning she wouldn’t be able to have children. It was the exact same amount of time she’d been given. A month to wrap her head around the soul-destroying news and decide to go ahead with the wedding. Too late, she’d realized that sort of news was a deal breaker.
“Earth to Sare-shee.”
Why couldn’t anyone get her name right? Sear-shuh, Sear-shuh, Sear-shuh!
She shot him a glare and grabbed the radio mic that was yabbering away for a callback.
“It’s Murphy,” she growled at him, before picking up. “This is Ambulance 23 at Mar Vista, ready to respond.”
They listened to the static-filled voice in silence. “Vehicle 23, we have a three-month-old infant presenting with fever and difficulty breathing.” The address came out in a clear, staccato, lightly accented voice.
“Got it.” She signed out, giving a sober-faced Santi a quick nod as she turned the key in the ignition and he flicked on the sirens.
Sharing time would have to wait.
“LOOK, THERE SHE IS.” Santi pointed toward the end of the block where a woman was running down the lawn with a swaddled child in her arms.
Saoirse pulled the vehicle alongside the frantic mother seconds later.
“You do immediate attending, I’ll get the gear ready,” she commanded, before flying out of the cab to open up the back.
“I thought you were the one in training. All experience is good experience.”
“Not today I’m not.” There was an edge to her voice, different from the professional terseness he’d seen the day before. There was definitely a story there. He yanked his stethoscope from around his neck and jumped out of the vehicle. Another time, another place.
“My baby’s not breathing! Please help my little boy!” The mother held the child in her outstretched arms toward Santi. While very pale, the baby boy had streaks of color in his cheeks, so he was clearly getting some oxygen, but even with Saoirse’s high-octane slamming of doors and the growing chatter of onlookers he could hear a rattle in the child’s quick, painful-sounding breaths.
“What’s his name?”
“Carlos—same as his papi. I’m Maria-Rose.”
“That’s a good, strong name for a boy.” Santiago took the child in his arms. Calming the parent was often half the trick in cases like this. “Has Carlos produced any phlegm, Maria-Rose?” he asked, steering the mother toward the ambulance and unwrapping the blanket. Children weren’t his forte, though he’d tended to his fair share of locals on his tours. The humanitarian side of being in the military had always appealed to him far more than treating victims of actual combat. He stopped the memories in midflow, quickly pulling back the child’s blanket and sleep suit. He hoped when he got the child fully unclothed he wouldn’t see a rash. The little boy’s cheek was hot to the touch and he wasn’t crying at all.
She shook her head. “He has been very lethargic, whining more than crying through the night. And then there’s that blue tinge to his tongue. Can you see it?”
He gently opened the boy’s mouth with his fingers and saw there was a blue tinge not only to his tongue but on the inside of his lips as well.
“We’d better get your son some oxygen.” He quickly ran through the child’s medical history with Maria-Rose, immunizations, no problems with the birth to speak of, and onset of symptoms.
“Just the past day or so that I’ve noticed.” She wrung her hands nervously, as if she’d given the wrong answer. Timing was critical with small children. She’d been wise to call for emergency services.
“Only twenty-four hours? Okay. Any trips since he’s been born?” he asked, pressing his stethoscope to the child’s chest only to hear the thick rattle that said one thing: pneumonia.
The mother shook her head.
“Good. What about you? Did you travel at all while you were pregnant?” From what he’d heard, there were lots of problems with women unknowingly affected by the Zika virus. He ran his hand across the child’s scalp—it felt normal size—so nothing to obviously suggest he, too, was a victim of the mosquito-borne affliction.
“Are you kidding?” She threw up her hands. “We’ve been saving all our money to go to Carlos and his education.”
The same as his parents had done. Sacrificed everything so their children could have it all. The closest they’d come to “returning” to their homeland of Heliconia had been Vizcaya on Biscayne Bay. The tropical gardens had always sent his mother into raptures of homesickness.
The weight of the child in his arms realigned his focus.
“Good. Any problems feeding?”
“In here, Santi.” Saoirse waved him to the back of the ambo, climbing up the steps as he approached.
“What do you need?”
Santi’s brain shot from information gathering to action mode. “High-flow oxygen, amoxicillin—”
“Did you check for allergies?” Saoirse’s tone was sharp but not accusatory. Safety first and all that.
“Yes. No allergies that the mother is aware of.” He took the oxygen tube she offered and gently taped it in place on the little boy’s face. “Can you inject the antibiotics into the saline solution please? Until we get cultures at the hospital we won’t know exactly what we’re dealing with but I’m pretty sure it’s pneumonia.”
“Do you see that?” Saoirse’s voice was low.
Santi narrowed
