Chapter 5 - Race Against Time
The storm outside had turned into a full-scale blizzard by eleven o'clock, but nothing could stop the convoy that roared out of the Vance Tower underground garage.
Two massive black SUVs, led by an emergency medical vehicle with flashing red lights, cut through the snow-choked streets of Detroit. Inside the lead vehicle, Laya sat sandwiched between Sterling and a top emergency paramedic, her small hand swallowed by her grandfather’s large, warm grip.
"How much further, Laya?" Sterling asked, his eyes darting to the GPS display on the dashboard.
"Two more blocks," Laya said, pointing through the frost-covered window. "Beside the blue sign."
The convoy pulled up to the dilapidated repair shop on 4th Street. The building looked even worse in the harsh daylight—the brickwork was crumbling, the gutters hung heavy with ice, and the lower windows were boarded up with rotting plywood.
Sterling took one look at the place where his daughter had spent three years, and his jaw set like iron.
"Get the stretcher," Sterling ordered the paramedics.
They took the narrow, rickety stairs two at a time, their heavy boots making the wooden steps groan under their weight. Laya ran ahead, her heart racing with a sudden, overwhelming fear.
"Mom!" Laya called out, pushing open the thin wooden door. "Mom, I'm back!"
The room was freezing. The small space heater in the corner had died, its faint red glow extinguished by a blown fuse. The window frame was coated in thick frost on the inside.
Evelyn Monroe lay still on the narrow bed, wrapped in the thin, damp blankets. The piece of sandwich Laya had left on the stool remained untouched. Evelyn’s face was as pale as the snow outside, her lips a faint, terrifying shade of blue.
"Mom!" Laya cried out, rushing to the side of the bed and grabbing her mother's hand. It felt like ice.
Sterling stepped through the door, his tall frame filling the tiny room. He stopped dead, his breath hitching in his chest as he saw the frail, hollow-cheeked woman lying on the narrow mattress.
Ten years of suffering had carved lines into her face, but beneath the sickness, he recognized the sweet, gentle daughter he used to lift onto his shoulders in the summer gardens.
"Evelyn," Sterling choked out, rushing to his knees beside the bed. "Evelyn, my baby girl..."
He reached out with trembling hands, cradling her cold face. Her skin was dry, her pulse so faint beneath his thumb that for a terrifying second, he thought he was too late.
Evelyn’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Her glassy, unfocused eyes turned toward the voice. She blinked, trying to clear the haze of fever and hypothermia.
"Dad...?" Evelyn whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound. She shook her head weakly against the pillow. "No... I'm dreaming... he’s gone..."
"I'm here, sweetie! I'm right here!" Sterling sobbed, kissing her cold forehead over and over again. "I never left you! Richard lied to us! He lied to both of us!"
Evelyn looked at him, her dark eyes slowly focusing on the silver hair, the familiar shape of his jaw, the tears streaming down the face of the man she thought had abandoned her to the world.
"Dad...?" she rasped, a single tear slipping down her pale cheek.
"We have to move her now, Mr. Vance!" the lead paramedic barked softly, pushing into the room with a heated thermal blanket and a portable oxygen tank. "Her core temperature is dangerously low. We need to get her to the ICU immediately."
Sterling didn't let the paramedics lift her. With a strength born of pure desperation, the sixty-year-old man reached down, wrapped his arms around his daughter's frail, lightweight body, and lifted her off the cold bed himself.
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"I’ve got you," Sterling whispered into her hair as he carried her down the creaking stairs, wrapping his warm coat around her shoulders. "I’ve got you, Evelyn. You're never going to be cold again."
Laya ran beside them, holding her mother’s hand as they rushed out into the howling storm, toward the flashing red lights that promised life.
