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At 3:46 p.m., I wrote Maya’s name on the hospital intake form.
The receptionist asked for her date of birth, insurance, symptoms, and emergency contact.
My pen shook over Robert’s name.
I wrote it anyway.
Then I checked the boxes.
Abdominal pain.
Nausea.
Dizziness.
Fatigue.
Unexplained weight loss.
Seeing those words lined up together made my throat tighten.
It looked less like a complaint and more like a warning.
The nurse who called us back was kind in the brisk way hospital people get when they are trying to be gentle and efficient at the same time.
She took Maya’s temperature.
She checked her pulse.
She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Maya’s thin arm and frowned at the numbers without saying why.
Maya watched the cuff inflate like it had personally offended her.
I tried to smile.
She did not smile back.