“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.
It wasn’t a sprinkle. It was gallons of water. And it was ice water. I saw the cubes hitting the stone as the deluge crashed down on us.
The shock was instantaneous. The freezing water soaked Lily’s pajamas instantly, plastering them to her feverish skin.
Lily screamed. It wasn’t a loud scream—she didn’t have the air for it. It was a weak, terrifying, gurgling sound of pure thermal shock.
“Fastest way to break a fever!” Sarah laughed, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Now take that burden and get out. Go to the VA hospital or wherever you people go. Don’t come back until she’s not contagious. I’m not having my weekend ruined by a plague rat.”
She turned and walked back inside, sliding the balcony door shut.
Time stopped.
I looked down at my daughter. She had stopped shivering. That was bad. That meant her body was giving up. Her lips were turning blue.
