Chapter Text
“911, qual é a sua emergência?”
A voz firme e serena de Maddie ecoou pelo call center. Era uma tarde comum em Los Angeles — até que deixou de ser.
On the other end of the line, there was silence for a few seconds. A muffled sound, maybe a hesitant breath, came before the response.
“My name is Arnold Gallagher. I’m a teacher at Roosevelt High, the public school. One of my students is sick. He fainted today during class. His mother isn’t answering, and according to her, he has a history of some illnesses. But… he’s very pale, really weak. He said he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning.”
Maddie frowned, already typing the information quickly.
“What’s the student’s name?”
“Edward Kaspbrak. He’s fifteen. He…” Muffled voices echoed through the phone, as if someone was arguing in the background. “Look, one of his friends is saying it’s the mom’s fault. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but something feels off. He’s always very quiet, anxious. And now… he looks exhausted, like he has no strength left.”
“Understood, Mr. Gallagher. A unit is on the way. Is the student conscious?”
“Yes, but he can barely stay on his feet. He’s in the nurse’s office. Please, just… send someone quickly.”
The siren cut through the warm Los Angeles air as the 118 truck turned the corner to the school. In the driver’s seat, Bobby kept his eyes focused on the road, steering with the calm precision that came from years of experience. Beside him, Hen reviewed the details on the tablet with heightened attention.
“Fifteen-year-old male, medical history, hasn’t eaten properly, possible neglect,” she said, eyes moving over the digital file. Her tone was professional, but something about this call unsettled her. Nothing about it felt simple.
“What kind of medical history?” Chimney asked, leaning over to glance at the screen.
“Not specified.”
Hen didn’t like that. “Extensive medical history, but no formal records or confirmed emergency contacts. And now the mother isn’t answering… weird, don’t you think?”
“Weird and dangerous,” Bobby replied, eyes still locked on the road.
When they arrived at the school, they were greeted by a visibly nervous counselor and Mr. Gallagher, who quickly led them to the nurse’s office. Outside the door, a small group of students stood watching with worried expressions. None of them looked just curious. This wasn’t typical school gossip — there was real concern in their eyes.
Inside the nurse’s office, Eddie Kaspbrak was sitting on the exam bed, curled in on himself, his body almost swallowed by clothes that were far too big. He was small — smaller than average for his age. His face was pale, his wide brown eyes like those of a cornered animal. When the team walked in, he seemed to hold his breath.
Next to him, a boy wearing glasses was clutching his hand tightly, their fingers interlaced. The gesture was protective, desperate — far too tense for two teenagers.
Hen stepped forward first, with Chimney by her side. Her voice was soft and careful.
“Hey, sweetheart. My name is Hen, and this is Chim. We’re here to help you, okay?”
Eddie nodded, still holding on to his friend’s hand.
“Do you remember what happened before you fainted?” Chimney asked as he clipped the pulse oximeter to Eddie’s finger and began checking his blood pressure.
“I… I had a headache. And I was dizzy. My vision got kinda blurry. Then… I blacked out.”
“Did you eat anything today?” Hen asked.
“No. My mom said it wouldn’t be good because of the medication.”
Hen and Chim exchanged a look. That answer triggered a silent alarm in both of them.
“What kind of medication do you take, exactly?” Hen asked gently.
“I have asthma. And immune system problems. And lactose intolerance. Gluten too. And pollen. And I’m allergic to paint, mold, a… a bunch of stuff.”
Hen watched closely as the vital signs appeared on the portable monitor. The oximeter showed a perfect oxygen saturation — 98%. Eddie was breathing normally, no wheezing, no visible effort, no bluish color around the lips or fingertips. Nothing pointed to an asthma attack or any respiratory compromise.
“Do you feel like you’re having trouble breathing right now?” she asked, carefully.
“A little… but I’m used to it,” Eddie answered, almost like he was repeating something he’d heard many times before.
Hen frowned. It wasn’t uncommon in cases of medical abuse: the child truly believed they were sick. And the body? The body told a different story.
“Do you have any of those medications with you?”
“No. My mom keeps them all at home. She doesn’t like me carrying anything.”
Hen took a deep breath, trying to keep her face neutral. This was starting to sound more like control than care.
“We’re going to take you to the hospital for some tests, okay?”
Eddie hesitated for a second, his eyes drifting to the boy with glasses. Then he nodded again, silently.
Chimney turned to the teachers. “Please keep trying to contact his mother. It’s important she knows her son is going to the hospital.”
“We’re already trying,” said the counselor. “But she hasn’t answered any of our calls.”
As they got Eddie ready to go, the boy with glasses stood up abruptly.
“I’m going with him.”
Hen turned to him, kind but firm.
“We need to take him alone, it’s protocol.”
But Eddie mumbled softly. “Richie…” He tugged lightly on the sleeve of his friend’s hoodie. “Please… let him go. I want him with me.”
Hen looked over at Bobby, who was standing by the door. He nodded subtly.
“All right. But no causing trouble, understood?”
Richie gave a tense, almost relieved smile.
“Understood.”
At the hospital, Hen and Chimney handed the case off to the ER doctors.
“He reported multiple illnesses — severe asthma, compromised immune system, several allergies — but the signs don’t match. Normal saturation, no signs of acute asthma, no active allergic reactions. We’re suspecting neglect or something more serious. The mother still hasn’t been located.”
“We’ll take care of him,” said one of the doctors, already starting to fill out the chart. “And we’ll try to reach his guardian.”
Hen watched as they wheeled Eddie away on a gurney, Richie walking beside him, looking back one last time as if he didn’t trust anyone in the world but himself to take care of that sick, fragile boy.
On the way back to the station, the tension inside the truck was palpable. Hen was mentally replaying everything they had seen and heard.
“Everything he said — the asthma, the intolerances, the allergies — none of it shows up in the vitals or in the quick exams. Oxygen levels are normal. Blood pressure’s just a little low. No signs of an active allergic reaction.”
“You think his mom lied to him?” Buck asked from the front seat.
Hen stayed quiet for a few seconds.
“Maybe he believes he’s sick. But it doesn’t look like he really is.”
Bobby cast a quick glance at the rearview mirror, his jaw tight.
“We’ll keep our eyes open. This doesn’t seem like just a regular fainting episode.”
And Eddie Diaz, who had remained silent the entire ride, finally murmured:
“If it’s what I’m thinking… that kid’s trapped in a nightmare. And he might not even realize he’s trying to wake up.”