No irritation.
“What did you say?”
Rosa’s own breathing came ragged. “It was a couple of hours ago. I tried to help him. I— I didn’t know what to do. He’s breathing, sir. But slow.”
Tomás exhaled sharply—like a man trying not to collapse.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and firm, the way men sound when they finally stop pretending. “Hang up and call 911 right now. Tell them it’s a pediatric emergency. Baby is unresponsive. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Rosa whispered.
A beat.
Then Tomás said something that shocked her more than anything else.
“Thank you,” he said, voice breaking. “Thank you for not letting my son be alone.”
Rosa stared at the phone like it was glowing.
Then she called 911, her English broken, her heart full of terror.
“Baby… won’t wake… please,” she cried. “Please help.”
The operator gave instructions, calm and direct. Rosa followed them as if her life depended on it.
Because maybe it did.
THE SIRENS IN THE RICH NEIGHBORHOOD
When the ambulance arrived, the neighborhood watched.
The paramedics moved with practiced efficiency, focused, professional. They didn’t admire the marble floors or the art on the walls.
They went straight to the baby.
One knelt. One checked the bottle. One asked sharply:
“What did he take?”
Rosa’s hands trembled as she pointed to the bottle.
The paramedic’s face tightened.
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