“Stay away from us,” I slammed my finger on the red end-call button.

The ambulance swayed as we took a sharp turn onto 18th Street.

Megan’s chest was rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks.

“She’s seizing,” the paramedic warned, grabby a rubber airway.

I grabbed Megan’s clammy hand and squeezed it.

“Hold on, Megs,” I whispered. “We’re almost there.”

The blue emergency lights flashed against the brick buildings outside the window.

The siren wailed, a high-pitched scream that vibrated in my teeth.

The ambulance slowed down, the brakes squealing as we pulled into the hospital bay.

Through the glass door of the rear exit, I saw the bright lights of the emergency room entrance.

I also saw two Chicago police cruisers parked on the sidewalk, their engines idling.

The paramedic threw the ambulance doors open.

The cold night air hit my face like a physical blow.

Two officers were already standing near the sliding glass doors of the ER.

Between them stood my mother.

She wore her heavy wool coat, her gray hair pinned back in a neat, tight bun.