“Patio,” she mumbled. “She was coughing. I didn’t want Tyler to get sick. He has soccer tryouts tomorrow.”
A cold spike of adrenaline hit my chest. It was the same feeling I got when an IED detector went off.
I ran to the back of the house. The sliding glass doors leading to the patio were locked. The curtains were drawn.
I ripped the curtains back.
Lily was huddled in the corner of the stone patio, curled into a tight ball. She was wearing only her thin cotton pajamas. Her skin was flushed a dangerous, blotchy red. She was shivering so violently that her teeth were audibly chattering even through the double-paned glass.
“Lily!” I roared.
I fumbled with the lock. It jammed. Sarah had engaged the security bar.
I slammed my shoulder into the frame, nearly shattering the glass, until the bar popped loose. I slid the door open and dropped to my knees beside my daughter.
“Daddy?” she wheezed. Her voice was thin, reedy. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. “Auntie Sarah said I have germs. She said I can’t come in.”
I touched her forehead. It was burning. Radiating heat like a furnace. At least 104 degrees.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Hey!”
I looked up. Sarah had appeared on the balcony above the patio, looking down at us. She was holding a large, yellow plastic cleaning bucket.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I screamed, my voice cracking with a rage I hadn’t felt in years. “She’s sick! You locked a sick child outside in the freezing cold?”
“Stop whining!” Sarah yelled back. “She wouldn’t stop crying! She’s burning up? Fine. Here’s a home remedy.”
She tipped the bucket.
Splash.
