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“Annoying.”
“I know, but it’s there to help you breathe.”
“But I already know how to do that,” she complained. “Been doing it all my life. My throat hurts.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
“Don’t want water. Want choccy milk.”
“Water first,” the voice said firmly.
“Don’t be mean. Choccy milk.” A warning went off in her brain, telling her that there was a reason she should guard her words. But she couldn’t figure out why.
“No choccy milk. It wouldn’t be very good for you.”
She huffed a breath. “No water. Not good for me.”
“It is good for you. And you will drink some.”
“Mean Daddy.”
There was silence and again that alarm went off in her brain, but she didn’t care. He was a mean Daddy.
A straw prodded at her lips, but she didn’t open them. Yes, she might have been cutting off her nose to spite her face. But a fact was a fact. And that fact was . . . oh, she’d forgotten.
Why was she taking a stand?
Oh, right. Water.
Her brain was sluggish. She felt terrible. She was definitely getting ill. And honestly, water sounded quite good right now.
“Open your lips, little girl, and drink your water.”
“Will you tell me I’m a good girl?”
There was a beat of silence. “Of course.”
“Okay, then.” She sucked in some water and it felt like heaven on her dry throat. When she’d had enough, she let the straw go and tried to snuggle into the bed, but it wasn’t very comfortable and she groaned.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like this. Where am I?” She tried to open her eyes. Everything was blurry. “I wanna go home.”
“Shh, you’re all right. You’re in the hospital.”
“Squish? Where’s Squish? I need him.”
“I’ll get someone to bring him here,” he reassured her.
“Why’m I in the hospital, Daddy?” she asked. “Am I ill?”
“You’re going to be just fine.”
She didn’t think she was. She thought she might be dying. Oh, that was so sad. She didn’t want to die.
“Baby, why are you crying?” he asked.
“I don’t wanna die. Don’t let me die.”
