“Hannah, something’s wrong. Zoe’s not breathing!”
Jake’s voice echoed through the narrow foyer of the Croziers’ building. His eyes were wide from panic. His daughter was rigid in his arms.
At Jake’s insistence, they’d abandoned Hannah’s Prius half a mile from his improvised safe house, and walked the rest of the way. It had seemed to Hannah an unnecessary precaution, since he’d already swapped her plates with those from a car of the same make and model before leaving the Upper West Side, but she’d been too tired and scared to argue. Now, she wished she had—because if they’d driven, they’d already be upstairs.
A low groan escaped Zoe’s lips as her muscles clenched, squeezing the air from her lungs.
“Jake, I need you to remain calm and listen very carefully,” Hannah said. “This is a seizure, triggered by her fever. Zoe will begin breathing again momentarily, but she’ll also likely start convulsing. We need to lie her down before that happens.”
“The elevator’s right there. If we hurry—”
“There isn’t time. We’ll have to make do here. Give her to me, and take off your jacket, so we can use it as a pillow.”
Without further delay, Jake did as Hannah instructed. As he shrugged out of Harold’s windbreaker, Hannah removed the paper mask from Zoe’s face, revealing lips of dusky blue. Together, they lowered her to the floor, and Jake slipped the jacket beneath her head. Soon after, Zoe began to tremble—and, to Jake’s obvious relief, breathe again.
“You don’t seem too surprised by this,” he said, as they crouched beside Zoe. “Has it happened before?”
Hannah nodded. “Once, last night.”
“Is it… normal?”
“Febrile seizures are not uncommon in kids her age,” Hannah replied carefully. “Nor are they typically indicative of anything serious.”
“Then how come you look so concerned?”
Hannah chewed her lower lip and exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Zoe’s seizures are the result of an unchecked bacterial infection,” she said. “Four years ago, I could’ve helped her. I could have cured her. Now, I’m next to useless. All I can do is keep her comfortable and hope she turns a corner on her own. It’s fucking barbaric.” Hannah’s words tumbled out, unbidden. When she heard them aloud, she was mortified, and worried that they’d set Jake spiraling.
Instead, he took her hand—their fingers interlacing effortlessly as if the acrimony of the past few months had never happened—and said, “Go a little easier on yourself, would you? I know you’re doing everything you can. Besides,” he added as her eyes brimmed with tears, “we’re not out of options yet.”
Jake’s sudden optimism regarding his daughter’s prognosis was more perplexing than it was reassuring, but before Hannah could ask him where it was coming from, they were interrupted by a blond woman stepping off the elevator—a canvas tote slung over her left shoulder, a cell phone in her right hand.
“Excuse me!”
Her tone was impatient, accusatory, as she attempted to squeeze between them and the mailboxes. Then she spotted Zoe thrashing on the floor.
“Is… is she all right?”
Jake and Hannah shared a glance.
By unspoken agreement, Hannah answered.
“She will be, once her seizure passes.”
“She doesn’t look all right. I’m calling nine one one.”
“No!”
At Jake’s outburst, the woman’s eyes narrowed.
“What my husband means is, that really isn’t necessary. Our daughter’s epileptic, so we’re used to dealing with this sort of thing. There’s no need to get a hospital—or, more precisely, their billing department—involved.”
The woman looked at Zoe, who jerked spasmodically, and then at Jake, who did his best to project an air of looming insolvency. Then she met Hannah’s gaze and said, “If you’re absolutely certain—”
“I am.” Hannah forced a smile. “But thanks so much for your concern.”
The woman frowned.
Hesitated.
And reluctantly continued on her way.
“Jesus, that was close.” Jake’s heart clanged against his sternum. “If that goddamn narc had called the cops—”
“Cut her some slack,” Hannah said. “She was only trying to help.”
Cold comfort if she sics the DBS on us after all we’ve done to avoid leaving a trail, he thought—but instead, he said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Jake’s free hand rested lightly on Zoe’s shoulder. After what seemed like an eternity—but was, in fact, only two minutes—she stilled, the tension in her muscles easing. Moments later, her eyelids fluttered open.
“Hey there, baby girl,” Jake said. “Welcome back.”
Zoe parted her dry, cracked lips as if to speak. For a moment, Jake dared to hope she was about to take exception to being called baby girl, as she’d been doing since her last birthday. Instead, her eyelids drooped, and she lapsed once more into unconsciousness.
Jake frowned. “Is she okay to move?”
Hannah reaffixed Zoe’s mask and said, “She should be.”
“Then let’s get her upstairs.”
Amy must’ve been watching for them through the peephole ever since she buzzed them in, because the apartment door swung inward before they had a chance to knock.
She’d freshened up since Jake had seen her last, and now wore one of Harold’s button-downs untucked over a pair of Marjorie’s jeans, cuffed at the ankle and doubtless belted as well. She’d swapped out her dirty hijab for a scarf of emerald-green raw silk.
Her color was good, her smile unforced. The only indication Jake saw of her recent injury was the fact that she favored her left arm when she greeted Hannah with a hug.
“Are you okay?” Amy asked. “I’ve been worried about you ever since Jake got your signal.”
“Honestly? Not really,” Hannah replied, “but I’m getting there.”
“She had a run-in with our friends in black last night,” Jake told Amy, “and some Endtimers this morning—not to mention a concerned citizen downstairs who, after one look at Zoe, would’ve dialed nine one one if Hannah hadn’t intervened.”
“You’ve been busy.”
Hannah smiled weakly. “A little too, for my taste.”
Mat, who’d been reading in the living room when they arrived, set down his book and stood. Hannah eyed him with curiosity, but Mat’s eyes were locked on the unconscious girl in Jake’s arms.
“Hannah, meet Mat,” Jake said. “Mat, meet Hannah. And Sleeping Beauty here is Zoe.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mat said, awkwardly, to Hannah. Then, to Jake: “Can I, uh—”
“Please.”
“Can he what?” Hannah asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jake replied, handing Zoe over to the boy. “I’m not even sure if I believe it yet myself.”
Mat, stronger than he looked, carried Zoe to the couch and set her down. Then he brushed her hair aside and removed her mask.
“You shouldn’t do that,” Hannah told him. “She’s very sick, and possibly contagious.”
“It’s okay,” Mat replied. “I’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“Hannah, listen,” Jake said, “I know this is a little… unorthodox… but trust me when I tell you that Mat knows what he’s doing.”
Hannah looked at Amy, her expression incredulous. “Are you on board with”—she gestured vaguely in Mat’s direction—“whatever this is?”
“Yeah. I think I am.” Amy seemed surprised by her own answer.
“Great, so either you two have gone nuts, or I have.”
“Jake?” Mat interrupted. “Can you get me a clean rag and a bowl of water?”
“Sure thing.” Jake rummaged through the linen closet until he found a washcloth. Then he fetched a bowl from the kitchen cupboard and filled it halfway from the tap.
Mat set the bowl on the coffee table and placed the washcloth on his lap. He submerged his hands in the bowl one by one and rinsed them, his pace deliberate, his focus acute. When he finished with them, he moved onto his forearms. Then he lowered his face to the bowl and splashed it several times. Finally, he slurped a mouthful of water with cupped hands, swished it around, and let it fall back into the bowl.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Hannah said, “but as a doctor—”
“Hannah, please, just let him work.”
Mat toweled himself off with the washcloth, dipped it into the bowl to wet it further, and used it to dab at Zoe’s exposed skin. His movements were precise, unhurried. He swabbed her forehead, neck, and ears. Dragged the washcloth across her eyes, nose, and lips. Followed her arms down from the hems of her short sleeves to her pudgy, dimpled hands, and gently scrubbed each finger in turn. Then he wetted the washcloth one last time, held it just above her parted lips, and squeezed. Zoe’s throat worked as she swallowed in her sleep.
This’ll work, Jake thought. It has to.
God, please let this work.
The process, if you could call it that, took about an hour. Jake and Amy watched with something approaching reverence, while Hannah made no effort to disguise her skepticism.
When Mat finished, he set the cloth aside and maneuvered Zoe into a seated position. Then he fetched his book from the side table and climbed onto the couch beside her so that her head rested on his shoulder.
“I don’t get it,” Hannah said. “What happens now?”
After a long pause, Mat replied.
“Now we wait.”