My first thought was a flicker of annoyance; she’d probably dropped my phone again, or maybe pocket-dialed me while showing it to one of her cousins. Then I noticed the timestamp. Each call was less than a minute apart. The kind of frantic, repeated tap a child makes when something is terribly wrong. A cold dread began to seep into my bones, chilling me faster than the hospital’s aggressive air conditioning.
I ducked into an empty hallway, my heart starting to hammer against my ribs. I hit redial and walked toward the windows overlooking the city, trying to project an aura of calm I was nowhere near feeling.
She answered on the first ring. “Mommy?” Her voice was a tiny, fragile thread of sound.
I’d heard that specific tone before. Once. Years ago, when she’d fallen off the monkey bars and thought she’d broken her arm. Only this time, it was thinner. Smaller. Trembling on the edge of a sob.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” My voice came out too calm, a detached, clinical tone I used with frightened patients, as if I were talking through a layer of cotton.
“They left me.”
“Who did, baby?”
“Grandma and Grandpa. Aunt Sienna. Everyone.”
I blinked, the sterile white walls of the hallway seeming to waver. “What do you mean they left you?”
“They said I could ride again. On the boat. They went to the… the next thing.”
For half a second, I almost smiled because it sounded so utterly impossible. My brain refused to compute the data. “Sweetheart, they’re probably right there. Just look around. Can you see them anywhere?”
Silence. Then a sniffle that shattered my composure. “No. I think… I think they really left.”
The hospital hallway tilted. I grabbed the cool metal of the window ledge to steady myself, forcing slow, deep breaths. Okay, Adriana. You’re a doctor. You handle emergencies. This is just another one.
“Okay, Mira. It’s going to be fine. We’ll figure this out.” I forced my voice back into doctor mode. Calm. Firm. Certain. Even though my pulse was thundering in my throat. “You’re still on the boat, right?”
“No,” she whispered, and the floor dropped out from under me. “I got off. Everyone else did, so I thought it was the same place. But it’s not. It’s different.”
My knees almost gave out. All I could see was an image of dark, moving, endless water, and my six-year-old daughter standing alone on the wrong dock.
“Alright,” I said, my voice as steady as I could make it. “We’re going to find out exactly where you are. Can you look around for me? Look for any big signs. Maybe a word? A number?”
“I can’t read all of them,” she said, her voice quivering with unshed tears. “There’s—um—ice… ice cream. And something with the word ‘tour’.”
“That’s great, baby. That’s perfect. Keep looking.”
She started sounding out the letters, slow and shaky. “I. C. E. L. A. K. E. T-O-U-R-S. Clearwater Lake Tours.”
Okay. One of those circular sightseeing rides that loop the lake every half hour. I exhaled a shaky breath. Not good, but not hopeless.
“Do you see anyone who works there? A grown-up with a name tag, maybe?”
“There’s a lady selling tickets in a little blue house.”
“Perfect. I want you to go to her, okay? Tell her your mommy is on the phone and wants to talk to her.”
I waited through a few long, agonizing heartbeats of silence and muffled, ambient chatter until a woman’s voice came through, confused but kind. “Hello? This is the ticket office at Clearwater Tours.”
“This is her mother,” I said, the words rushing out. “My name is Adriana Morales. My family may have gotten separated from her. She’s six years old. Can you please, please keep her with you until I can reach someone?”
“Oh my God, of course,” the woman said, her voice instantly shifting to one of warm concern. “The poor little thing. She’s safe here with me. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you.” My voice cracked on the last word, the dam of my professional composure finally breaking. “Just please don’t let her out of your sight for a second.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
