I down the rest of my water and refuse a browned banana while I wait for Coach to arrive. My stomach coils. Helpless.
There’s a chair and a blanket and people who are okay with letting me sit here. Someone from the triage tent unwraps my arm bandage, checks my wound, reapplies clean gauze. I’m glad when he tells me it’s healing okay. No sign of infection. But I also want to tell him to help someone else instead of me. Or take to the streets like Ava and Luke. He could be busy finding people who are trapped like I was instead of changing out my gauze. Checking on me doesn’t matter right now. My mom is the only thing that matters.
Where is she? Is she okay?
It’s an eternity before I see Coach, but when I finally do, I run to him. I’m so relieved to see him wearing his team sweatshirt and his Pacific Shore High School hat as if he were standing on the pool deck before practice instead of outside a triage tent. His clothes are clean, like he’s been someplace safe. Like he can keep me safe. Like he’ll protect me. How did I not realize that until now? I fall against him. Everything hits me at once. How long I’ve been alone. How I had to claw my way out of the rubble and fight for my life in the hospital. How I had to escape this morning and walk so far to find help. The thoughts make me crumble. I go down like the walls of the laundromat until I’m a heap on the ground. Bent over. Bunched up. A heaving mass of sobs and relief. Coach holds me up. Tucks me in. Lets me cry.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says.
“Where’s my mom? I called her phone from the hospital. I couldn’t get through.”
“Nobody could. But she refused to let go of her phone.”
“But where is she now? Why isn’t she here?”
“She’s okay, but she’s in a hospital. She has some injuries. They’re serious, but she’s going to be okay.”
“Take me to her.”
“That’s why I’m here.”