“Dispatch to Unit 4-Alpha and 4-Bravo,” I spoke into the main channel, my voice shifting back to the command tone. “Respond to 404 Elm Street. Six-year-old female, unaccompanied. Reports extreme pain, immobility. Possible severe insect infestation or hallucination. Proceed with caution.”
James was a good cop. He was a father of three girls. If anyone could handle this, it was him. But he was ten minutes out.
“Mia, listen to me,” I said, returning my focus to the little girl. “I have Officer James coming to you right now. He’s driving a big car with loud sirens. But I need you to stay on the phone with me until he gets there. Can you do that?”
“I… I’m tired,” she slurred.
Panic spiked in my chest. Her voice was changing. It was losing its crispness, becoming thick and heavy.
“No, no sleeping,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “Mia, tell me about your room. What can you see?”
“I can see… the TV,” she mumbled. “Cartoons.”
I could hear it faintly in the background—the manic, cheerful music of a morning animation. Boing, crash, laughter. It was a grotesque soundtrack to the whimpering of a dying child.
“Okay, cartoons are good. What else? Can you look out the window?”
Big.
My mind raced through the medical index I had memorized over two decades. Swelling. Burning pain. Redness. Difficulty breathing.
This wasn’t abuse. This wasn’t a nightmare.
“Mia,” I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Are there a lot of ants?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “They are red. They are everywhere. On the pillow. On the sheet.”
Fire ants.
It had been a wet autumn. The rain drove insects indoors. If a nest had been disturbed, or if the house foundation was cracked…
“Like… like Batman?” Continue reading…
