Page 95 of Protecting What's Mine

“Honey, you should be after a night with Chief Reed.” Freida was in full-on spirit fingers mode.

“Go easy on her, ladies,” Russell insisted. “Mackenzie is new to this kind of dysfunctional workplace intimacy.”

Mack laughed. She’d bonded fiercely with her crew on the bird that had crash-landed in the dirt and dust in the middle of the damn desert in Afghanistan. And she’d spent most of her career surrounded by soldiers who’d never heard the phrase “don’t kiss and tell.” But this was something different.

“We’re just happy for you,” Tuesday promised. She had her hair woven into some complex side-part braid thing that looked like it had walked off a Pinterest board. “And thank you for the latte.”

“Heard that fire was a doozy last night. But no fatalities, thanks to your manfriend,” Freida mused.

“Maybe think about ordering a new chair?” Russell suggested as he herded Freida and Tuesday out her door. “And thank you for the coffee.”

Left alone with Freddy Mercury, Mack kicked the chair before righting it. She weighed her options and then sat gingerly, avoiding the backrest while she reviewed the appointments scheduled for today.

SIX-YEAR-OLDDALTONMCDOWELLpresented with a fever that had started earlier in the week and spiked overnight.

“We took him to urgent care on Tuesday night,” his mother, a harried woman in a misbuttoned white cardigan, explained. “They said it was most likely strep and gave us a prescription, but he’s not getting any better. And last night he threw up.”

The poor kid was shivering in his little hoodie. “Let’s take a look. Dalton, buddy, do you have any pain?”

His eyes were red, she noted.

He shrugged listlessly. “I threw up a lot,” he said.

“Have you been hungry?”

He shrugged again.

“He doesn’t have his usual appetite. He hasn’t asked for a snack in days,” Mrs. McDowell reported.

“Let’s check your temperature, okay?”

He nodded and sat slump-shouldered while Mack slid the thermometer in his mouth. She turned to the laptop and made a few notes. “Has he been around anyone else with similar symptoms?”

“I haven’t heard about anything going around school, and I would. The parents in his class are pretty tight, and when one of them gets the stomach bug, we all prepare for it.”

Mack skimmed the patient record and caught the note at the very bottom.Interesting.

“Have you guys been camping lately?” she asked, turning back to the boy.

Dalton’s mom smiled through her anxiety. “This weekend. All five of us in one tent. We went hiking, didn’t we, bud?”

He nodded, and the thermometer beeped.

104.2.

She felt the quiet revving of her brain as it made a tentative connection. That last medical journal that she’d restlessly skimmed before she picked up the novel last night.

“I know you’re probably pretty cold, but I need to take a look at your arms and your feet. So can we take your sweatshirt and shoes off for a minute? You can put them right back on,” she promised.

“I guess,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“This is so unlike him,” his mom said in a low voice. “I’m worried it’s something serious.”

Together, she and Mrs. McDowell pulled off the sweatshirt, sneakers, and socks.

He shivered as Mack skimmed her hands over the boy’s arms and turned his palms up to look at them. She did the same with his feet.

No rash.