The ambulance doors were still open. My baby was being stabilized inside, tiny limbs surrounded by medical equipment and careful hands.
I climbed in beside him.
The paramedic told me they were taking him to the hospital for immediate evaluation.
I nodded.
Before the doors closed, I saw my husband standing in the driveway.
The police officer was speaking to him.
His mother was still inside the house.
Then my husband said something that made the officer stop writing.
I couldn’t hear the words through the ambulance doors.
But I could read his lips.
“There was another notebook.”
The doors shut.
My heart dropped.
At the hospital, doctors examined my son’s injuries and began treating the chemical exposure. I answered questions as clearly as I could, even when my hands shook.
What substance had been used?
I didn’t know.
How long had the baby been exposed?
I didn’t know.
