My breathing stopped.
“What?”
“She got everyone out.”
“One by one?”
“Not alone.”
He shook his head.
“Some people could walk. Some of us helped each other. But Claire kept going back in.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rocky.”
“Four.”
I covered my mouth.
“Four times?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t anyone call 911?”
“We did.”
“When?”
“Once we got outside.”
He looked ashamed.
“But Claire wouldn’t let us say why we were down there.”
“Why?”
“Because she said we’d get suspended.”
I stared at him.
“So?”
“We had playoffs.”
I almost slapped him.
Not because he deserved violence.
Because grief makes your body want somewhere to put itself.
Rocky kept talking.
“Hannah had a scholarship interview. Marcus was already on probation at school. I was supposed to start talking to scouts.”
I stepped back.
“You let my daughter hide a chemical exposure because you were worried about sports?”
“No.”
“That’s exactly what you did.”
“We didn’t know she was sick.”
“She was exposed too!”
“We thought everybody was okay.”
His voice cracked.
“The paramedics checked us outside.”
That made me stop.
“Paramedics came?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t the hospital know?”
“Claire wouldn’t go.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
“She said she was fine.”
Of course.
My daughter.
The girl who always said she was fine because she had learned that suffering quietly caused less trouble.
“Did anyone else go to the hospital?”
“Hannah’s mom took her to urgent care.”
“Did she mention chemicals?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rocky, what exactly spilled?”
“I don’t know.”
He scrolled through his phone.
“There’s another video.”
I grabbed his wrist.
