“Call an ambulance,” I choke out, shaking as bad as my daughter.
Georgia kisses Colby’s head. “You did good. Now listen, I need you to run inside and go get Kade’s truck keys. Right now.”
Colby runs off and Georgia calmly turns to me. “Her seat is in your truck, so we’re going to take that. Can you strap her in or do I need to do it?”
“W-what?” My head shakes along with my limbs. “Ambu–”
“Will not get here in time.” She steps up, brushing Aurora’s cheeks, but she’s too busy screaming and gasping, every breath wheezing more than the last, to see her. “We need to go. Right now.”
Colby comes flying out with my keys and throws them at Georgia, who catches them like a fuckin’ baseball player.
“Good job, sweetheart. We’re leaving. Go tell your mom what happened and that we’re headed to the Heart Springs Clinic. And that she needs to call ahead for us and let them know what'shappening. If you don't get to your mom in five minutes, call me. Got it?”
Colby disappears in a blur of frantic limbs, and Georgia doesn’t waste a second. She grabs my forearm, her grip steady but urgent, and pulls me toward the truck.
“Come on, Kade. We don’t have time.”
My feet move, but my mind doesn’t. I follow her like I’m underwater, ears ringing, heart punching the inside of my chest like it’s trying to break free. Aurora’s tiny body shakes against mine with every sob, her skin flushed, her lips starting to swell.
This can’t be happening.
Georgia wrenches open the back passenger door and holds it for me. “Strap her in,” she says gently but firmly. “I’ll drive.”
My hands tremble so badly I nearly fumble the buckles. “I—I can do it, I can—”
“I know you can, baby,” she soothes. “If you can’t, I can. It’s okay. I’ve got you both.”
I nod, or I think I do.
My fingers somehow manage the harness, clicking it into place as Aurora’s cries weaken into gasping whimpers. Georgia’s already in the driver’s seat, adjusting mirrors, sliding her phone onto the mount, starting the truck. She’s a blur of motion, calm and composed and fucking heroic.
I slam the door shut and run to the other side, climbing in next to Aurora so I can keep an eye on her. Georgia reverses the truck and catches my gaze, giving me a wobbly nod. I think I nod back, but my vision tunnels.
All I can hear is the slightly wheezing cry from next to me. All I can see is a little girl I’d kill for, hurting and helpless.
My daughter.
God, please don’t take her from me.
I can’t lose anyone else.
Georgia peels out of the gravel drive, tires spinning as we take the winding road like a bat out of hell. I don’t take my eyes off Aurora, don’t take my hand from her chest, as I monitor the swelling and her breathing. It’s fast, but full and not closed off. Her lips are slightly puffy, cheeks red, but her airway’s open.
I don’t think I breath or focus on a damn thing except Aurora until I feel Georgia’s touch.
She reaches back and squeezes my hand hard enough to drag me back to the present.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” she says softly, not even looking at me. Her voice is barely above a whisper, like it’s meant for someone else entirely.
And then it hits me… she’s not just talking to me, she’s talking to Aurora too.
“I’ve got you, baby girl,” she murmurs, voice cracking with love. “You’re safe. We’re almost there. I love you. I love you so much. Nothing’s going to take you away from me ever again. Nothing.”
Tears hit my face before I realize I’m crying. Her words slide under my ribs like a balm, pushing through the fear and chaos and cracking something open. She’s soothing both of us. And I didn’t even know how much I needed to be soothed until I heard it.
She’s here, strong and brave and not running.
And I never want to live a single damn second without her again.
