Chapter 5
NINA
I clap and cheer as the soccer ball goes flying into the net, but my attention isn’t really on the game.
It’s on Austin, who’s bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing harder than he should be for a six-year-old who’s barely been running.
He’s been tired a lot lately. More naps than usual, asking to sit down during our walks to the park. I keep telling myself it’s just the Vegas heat, but a nagging voice in the back of my head whispers that something’s off.
“Is that your son?” the man beside me asks when Austin waves at me with less enthusiasm than I’d expect.
I smile and nod, feeling that familiar warmth I always get when someone notices Austin. “Yep.”
He points to a little red-headed boy who’s chasing a butterfly instead of the ball. “That one’s mine. Kids, huh?”
I force a smile, already half checked out.
"It looks like you're here alone," he continues. "Me too. Divorce, you know? I'm guessing you probably know how that is?"
There's open curiosity in his eyes, the kind that says he's fishing for my story. I've gotten good at recognizing that look.
“Actually, no. I’m not divorced. I’m just a single parent.”
It’s my standard response. Vague enough to shut down follow-up questions without being rude. The truth is more complicated than most people want to hear anyway.
How do you explain that your son’s father is a stranger you slept with once seven years ago?
A stranger who saved you from some very dangerous men, which meant he was probably dangerous himself. I never even tried to track him down after I found out I was pregnant. Bringing a baby into that world seemed like the worst possible idea.
I’m still lost in thoughts of the man I never should’ve slept with when Austin suddenly stumbles and hits the ground. He’s not getting back up.
Something’s wrong.
“Austin!” I call out, but he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even turn his head toward my voice.
My heart lurches. Now I’m moving, taking the bleacher steps two at a time.
The other kids cluster around him, their high-pitched voices overlapping in confusion. I shove my way through and drop to my knees beside my son, my hands already shaking. He’s on his back, eyes closed, but his chest is moving. Breathing. That’s good.
I press my fingers to his wrist, feeling his heart hammering way too fast. His skin feels clammy, and I keep thinking about how he could barely catch his breath before he collapsed.
“Austin, baby, I need you to open your eyes for me,” I say, and I hate how my voice shakes. I’m trying to stay calm, but seeing him like this is ripping me apart.
“I’ve called an ambulance,” the coach says from behind me.
I stroke Austin’s hair back from his forehead, noting how his breathing sounds labored even unconscious.
Please wake up, I think desperately. Please be okay.
“Has he been drinking water?” I call to the coach without taking my eyes off my son, surprised I can even form words when my throat feels so tight.
“Yeah, he had some at halftime. Maybe ten minutes ago.”
So dehydration isn’t the issue. My mind races through possibilities even as panic digs in, sharp and merciless. Heat stroke? Maybe, but the temperature isn’t extreme today. Could be low blood sugar, but he ate a good breakfast.
The siren cuts through my mental checklist, growing louder as it approaches.
I keep talking to Austin, telling him I’m here, that everything’s going to be okay, but the words feel hollow when he doesn’t respond. When the paramedics arrive, I force myself to move back and give them room to work, even though every instinct I have screams to stay right beside him.
“I’m his mother,” I tell them immediately, trying to keep my voice steady. “He collapsed about ten minutes ago. His heart’s racing really fast.”
The female paramedic nods, already checking his vitals. “Any medical history? Allergies? Medications?”
“None that I know of. He’s never had problems like this before.” My voice wavers. “But he’s been more tired than usual lately, napping more, getting winded easily.”
They work quickly, efficiently. I catch fragments of their conversation: “heart rate elevated,” “oxygen saturation low,” “possible cardiac event.”
Cardiac event. In a six-year-old?
Terror floods through me, but I swallow it down. I have to stay functional. I have to be what my son needs right now.
When they load Austin onto the gurney, I climb into the ambulance beside him and take his small hand in mine. His fingers are so still, so limp. It’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
“Ma’am,” the male paramedic says gently, “we’re headed to Mountainview Hospital. There’s a pediatric cardiology team waiting. I want to prepare you that things might move quickly once we arrive, and you may not be able to stay with him for all the procedures.”
The thought of leaving Austin’s side makes me feel physically sick, but I nod. “I understand. Is there anything else I should know? Anything I should be prepared for?”
“Just that the team at Mountainview is excellent. Your son is in good hands.” He pauses, studying my face. “Is there anyone you can call? Family? The boy’s father?”
My throat tightens. “He’s my only family.” Growing up in foster care doesn’t leave you with much of a support network. “But I can call a friend.”
I pull out my phone and text Keshia, my best friend and roommate: Austin collapsed at soccer. Heading to Mountainview Hospital. Please come.
I’ll fill her in on details later. Right now, I need to focus on the fact that my son is unconscious in an ambulance and I don’t know if he’s going to be okay.
The hospital is controlled chaos. Austin is wheeled into a bay surrounded by people in scrubs, and I’m directed to a chair where I can see everything but stay out of the way. A woman in a white coat over her scrubs approaches the gurney with purpose.
She takes charge immediately, rattling off orders while examining Austin. When she pulls out equipment for what I recognize as an echocardiogram, my stomach clenches. I’ve never seen one performed, but I know what it is. They’re looking at his heart.
The grainy black-and-white image on the screen means nothing to me, but the doctor’s frown as she studies it means everything.
“I’m Dr. Murphy,” she says when she finally approaches me. “Pediatric cardiologist. Your son has a heart defect called pulmonary valve stenosis. The valve that controls blood flow from his heart to his lungs is too narrow, which restricts oxygen flow. That’s why he collapsed.”
I nod, trying to process this information. “Is it fixable?”
“With medication, yes. We can manage his symptoms and help him live a normal life. I want to do a more detailed test to get a complete picture, but the good news is that he’s going to be fine.”
“What kind of test?”
“An echocardiogram where we pass a small tube down his throat to get a closer look at his heart.”
My stomach flips. The thought of them putting anything down Austin’s throat makes me nauseous, but I push it aside. “Is it safe?”
“Yes. Very.”
I nod and sign the paperwork.
When they wheel Austin away, I’m left in the waiting room that smells like disinfectant and fear. I can’t sit still, so I pull out my phone. Congenital heart defect. Treatable, but expensive. Maybe surgery one day. My anxiety ratchets higher with every line I read.
The more I scroll, the more questions I have. What does “treatable” actually mean? Will he be able to play sports? Live a normal life? And how much will all this cost us?
By the time Keshia arrives, I’ve read everything I can find about Austin’s condition.
I know what questions to ask the doctor, what to expect from his treatment, what warning signs to watch for.
The practical side of my brain has also started wondering how we’re going to afford all of this, but I push that worry aside for now.
“Nina, what the hell happened?” Keshia drops into the chair beside me, still in her yoga clothes. She’s wearing leggings and a bright pink tank top that contrasts with her warm brown skin, her box braids pulled into a ponytail. She must have come straight from teaching a class.
I give her the quick version while we wait. When I finish, her face is full of worry and sympathy. She reaches over and squeezes my hand tightly.
“He’s going to be okay,” she says firmly.
“I hope so.” I lean back in my chair. “But Kesh, this is going to be lifelong. Medications, regular check-ups, monitoring...and you know how our insurance is.”
Keshia’s face falls as she realizes what I’m getting at.
“But I can’t think about that right now,” I shake my head. “I just need him to be okay first.”
When Dr. Murphy comes to get us an hour later, Austin is awake and asking for me. The relief nearly knocks me over, but it’s tempered by everything she tells us about his treatment plan. Multiple medications. Monthly check-ups. Possible surgery down the road if the medication stops being effective.
I listen and ask about side effects and long-term prognosis, but part of my mind is running numbers. How much this will cost. How many extra shifts I’ll need to pick up. How I’m going to afford this without sacrificing every moment I have with my son.
Two weeks pass in a blur of double shifts and medication schedules. I’ve been picking up every extra hour I can at the diner, working from opening to close most days. The tips are decent, but Austin’s medications are going to cost four hundred dollars a month, and that’s just the beginning.
Tonight I don’t get home until after eleven. The diner closes at ten, but there’s always cleaning and prep work for tomorrow. I’m so exhausted I can barely think straight, but I force myself to be quiet as I unlock the door to the house we share with Keshia. Austin’s been asleep for hours.
I drop my purse and kick off my shoes, then pad down the hallway to his room. The door is slightly open, and I can hear his soft breathing from the doorway. He’s sprawled across his twin bed, one arm hanging off the edge, dark hair mussed from sleep.