Chapter 35 Rhea
THIRTY-FIVE
RHEA
Esme’s not herself.
It starts as a sniffle. A clingier-than-usual morning. Warm cheeks. The kind of low-grade fever you try not to overreact to.
I call in sick.
She’s curled against me on the couch, damp curls sticking to her forehead, fingers tangled in my sweatshirt. I press a cool washcloth to her face, rub tiny circles on her back, and try to coax her to drink electrolytes in tiny sips.
“Good girl,” I whisper, even though she doesn’t respond.
By mid-afternoon, she’s barely opened her eyes.
The thermometer reads 101.4, but it’s not the number that scares me—it’s the way she’s breathing. A little faster than normal. Like her chest is working harder than it should.
I try not to panic.
I Google symptoms. I type questions into ChatGPT. I scroll through forums and parenting sites, looking for reassurance—something that tells me I’m overreacting.
I text Laney, forgetting she’s at her aunt’s funeral in Vermont.
We’re still on the road, babe. Back tomorrow night. You okay?
I say yes. But I am not okay.
By nightfall, Esme’s fever spikes—103.7—and her breaths are shallow, rapid, too tight in her little chest. She makes a soft wheezing sound when she exhales, and it shreds me.
I don’t wait.
I bundle her in a blanket, pull on a sweatshirt over my tank top, and grab my keys. The drive to Maplewick General is five minutes. I take every corner like a first responder.
The ER is mostly quiet, thank God.
A nurse takes one look at Esme and rushes us past the check-in desk. Within ten minutes, we’re in a dim room with oxygen monitors, IV prep, and a man in a white coat who introduces himself as Dr. Harris.
He’s kind but focused, his brows drawn as he listens to her chest and orders a nebulizer treatment.
“RSV is everywhere right now,” he says. “We’re seeing a lot of this in toddlers—she’s right at the danger age.”
I nod, numb, barely breathing. “What does that mean? Danger age?”
He glances at the monitor, then back at me.
“Under two is when we worry most. Their airways are smaller. They can’t clear mucus efficiently. RSV can turn fast—especially if there’s a fever, labored breathing, or signs of dehydration.”
I look down at Esme. Her lips are slightly parted. Her chest rising and falling too quickly.
“She’s still responsive,” he adds gently. “That’s good. But she’s working hard. And if she tires out…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
I sit on the edge of the gurney, holding her hand as they wheel her upstairs. She’s limp, flushed, eyes glassy. Her tiny body looks even smaller against all the machinery.
I text Laney again. No reply this time. I’m alone.
My hands are shaking.
And for once—I don’t try to power through it. I have no urge to be independent or strong or brave. I pull out my phone, open Spencer’s contact, and send one message:
Can you call me? It’s important.
Nothing.
I wait five minutes, pacing the room, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.
I call. No answer.
I wait five more minutes. Then I type again.
Esme’s really sick. And I’m scared. Can you call?
He calls immediately.
“Rhea?”
The sound of his voice brings tears immediately.
“She’s really sick,” I say, feeling my emotions rise to the surface. “It’s RSV. They’ve admitted her. She’s struggling to breathe and the fever won’t break, and I just—” My voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. Calm, but intense. “Just keep breathing yourself, and stay with her. I’m going to make some calls. See what I can do. Don’t go anywhere.”
He hangs up. I don’t move.
Fifteen minutes later, a nurse wheels in a laptop on a rolling cart and sets it up near the foot of the bed. Dr. Harris follows, looking irritated.
“The specialist consult you requested,” the nurse says, tapping a few keys. “With Boston Children’s.”
I glance up, confused. Then the screen flashes on, she logs into a Zoom link, and there is Spencer’s face.
Not calling from his phone. He’s on the video call. Sleeves rolled. Jaw tight. Looking like a man who’s already made twelve phone calls and isn’t done yet.
Then, beside him, another window opens: a pediatric specialist from Boston Children’s. Gray-haired, authoritative, his voice low and calm. Dr. Levinson.
Dr. Harris stands arms crossed. Clearly not thrilled.
“Dr. Levinson,” the man says, nodding at the screen, “I understand we’re consulting on an eighteen-month old female, positive for RSV, admitted tonight with respiratory distress and persistent fever?”
Dr. Harris nods, guarded. “Yes. She’s receiving supportive oxygen and fluids. She had a mild improvement after the nebulizer but is still trending high on respiratory rate and temp. I was considering a transfer to Hanover if she worsens overnight.”
“We’re seeing a high RSV spike here as well,” Dr. Levinson says. “But we’ve had success managing similar cases with a high-frequency nasal cannula, paired with nebulized epinephrine and an IV corticosteroid protocol. Your facility—do you have high-frequency cannulas on-site?”
Dr. Harris’s jaw ticks. “No. We don’t keep them stocked.”
“And the epi delivery system?”
“We use albuterol,” he says. “The protocol you’re suggesting isn’t exactly standard.”
Dr. Levinson’s voice stays calm. “No. It’s not standard. But it’s effective.”
I shift in the chair beside Esme’s bed, feeling every word sink into my skin.
Dr. Harris turns to me. “We can stabilize her and transfer her to Hanover by ambulance if needed. I know that hospital, I know the staff. They’re good,” he glances at Spencer on the screen,.
“Well, good isn’t good enough,” Spencer snipes.
Dr. Harris stiffens. “Mr. Devereaux, with respect, I’m the one in the room with this child. And we’re doing everything that can reasonably be done.”
“And if she’s not improving, then it’s not enough, is it?” Spencer responds, sharp and short.
“Look,” Dr. Levinson jumps in, “I’ve secured a PICU bed for her at Boston Children’s, and a medivac helicopter is en route already. It will land within the hour. I understand your pad is in the parking lot.”
My breath catches.
Dr. Harris looks at me, then at the screen. “Most insurance providers aren’t going to cover transport at this point.”
“It’s covered,” Spencer says, calm and firm. “Personal pay. That’s the least of our worries.”
And then—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
A monitor starts shrieking.
Sharp. Fast. Urgent.
Esme lets out a weak cry. Her chest flutters like a bird’s wing—too fast, too shallow.
The nurse rushes to the monitor. “O2’s dropping. She’s desatting—ninety-one, now eighty-eight…”
Dr. Harris is already at the bedside, flipping through vitals, calling for respiratory support. His face tightens, tone shifting.
“Call the transport team,” he says to the nurse. “Prep for transfer. Now.” His earlier objections vanishing like smoke.
Spencer’s voice cuts through the speaker again, steady and clear. “The helicopter will be there in twenty minutes. Rhea, you stay with her. I’ll meet you when you land.”
Dr. Levinson is still calm, but business-like,. “We’ll remain on standby for handoff. My team will be ready on arrival.”
The call ends.
I look down at Esme—still so small, still struggling to breathe—and I feel the ground shift beneath me.
Because whatever happens next, it’s no longer just me and Esme.
Spencer’s in the center of this now. And I don’t know if that terrifies me… or saves me.