“Warmers. Oxygen. Neonatal team. Full blood work. Now.”
The twins were transferred onto separate stretchers.
Heated blankets covered them.
Nurses placed tiny lines into their arms while a respiratory therapist monitored their breathing.
But Maria’s eyes kept returning to the girl.
Scratches ran up both her legs.
Her knees were bruised purple and brown.
Her lips were split from thirst.
A small piece of twine had been tied around her wrist.
A child should not know how far a hospital was.
A child should not have to measure love in miles.
Maria crouched in front of her.
“What is your name?”
The girl hesitated.
“Lily.”
“Lily what?”
“Lily Carter.”
The receptionist wrote it on an emergency contact form with trembling fingers.
“Can you tell us where you live?”
“By Miller Creek.”
“Do you know the road?”
“Old Quarry Road.”
“Do you know the house number?”
Lily shook her head.
