Mark stood up slowly, like he was the one being wronged. He gave Dana that same easy smile he used on neighbors, cashiers, teachers, anyone who might one day defend him.
“You’re overreacting,” he said. “It’s medicine. She wouldn’t take it for me unless I made it into a game.”
Sophie let out a tiny sound I’d never heard before. Not a sob. Not a scream.
A sound like giving up.
I crossed the room and wrapped the towel around her harder, pulling her against me. Her skin was cold and damp. Her whole body shook in quick little bursts.
She buried her face in my shoulder.
“What medicine?” Dana asked.
Mark glanced at the cup. “Just something to help her sleep.”
He said it casually. Like that made it better.
Dana looked at the counter, then at me. “Did a doctor prescribe anything?”
I shook my head.
That was when the sirens cut through the street outside.
Mark’s face changed for the first time. Not panic. Anger.
Not because Sophie was scared. Not because I was crying. Because he’d lost control of the room.
He took one step toward us.
Dana lifted her hand and said, “Don’t.”
Two officers came upstairs less than a minute later. I remember their boots on the wood floor, the radio crackle, the sudden feeling that the house was too small to hold everything happening inside it.
One officer moved Mark into the hallway. The other crouched near me and asked if Sophie needed an ambulance.
Dana answered before I could.
“She needs to be checked now. Save the cup. Save the towel. Don’t let anyone touch that timer.”
The officer nodded and called it in.
Mark kept insisting he was helping. He said Sophie fought bedtime, that she had sensory issues, that I was emotional and didn’t understand their routine. Every sentence sounded rehearsed.
That word stayed with me. Routine.
Not mistake. Not panic. Not one bad night.
Routine.
