“Can I help you?” she asked through the metal speaker circle.

“My daughter June is four months old,” I said, keeping my tone calm and precise.

“Her rectal temperature read 104.1 ten minutes ago on a digital ear thermometer.

She has a weak cry, flushed skin, and has been lethargic for three hours.”

The nurse pulled a yellow plastic triage wristband from a dispenser tray beside her keyboard.

Ethan stood three feet behind my right shoulder, pacing a short line back and forth between the water fountain and the trash can.

He checked his wristwatch twice, tapped his sneaker on the linoleum, and cleared his throat loudly.