Survival was the evidence Elaine used to excuse whatever came before it.
The second officer carried the inhaler toward his cruiser.
Elaine watched him.
“Why are you taking that?”
“It’s being documented.”
“It belongs to my granddaughter.”
The first officer looked at her.
“She needed it twenty minutes ago.”
For once, Elaine had no answer.
The paramedic asked me about Lily’s medical history.
“Moderate persistent asthma,” I said.
“Any hospitalizations?”
“Once when she was four. Nothing recently.”
“Known triggers?”
I answered each question.
Exercise.
Respiratory infections.
Sometimes seasonal allergies.
Then the paramedic asked the question that made my voice catch.
“How long was she without access to the rescue inhaler after asking for it?”
I looked at Elaine.
She stared at the porch railing.
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “Lily called me at 3:17.”
The officer turned toward Elaine.
“When did you take it?”
“I wasn’t looking at a clock.”
