Chapter 1 The Emergency

AUDREY

The pharmaceutical CEO's tie has a tiny coffee stain on it. Right there, just below the knot. I'm watching him gesture at his PowerPoint slides about network vulnerabilities when my brain catches on that stupid detail because focusing on coffee stains is easier than explaining why their security system is basically digital tissue paper.

"So you're saying our entire patient database could be compromised?" His voice has that executive pitch - trying to sound concerned while calculating lawsuits per minute.

I tap my stylus against my tablet. Morse code. Old habit. S-O-S over and over because that's what this meeting feels like. "I'm saying a motivated twelve-year-old with WiFi could access your insulin pump dosage records before lunch."

The conference room goes quiet. Good. Maybe now they'll actually-

BRRRRING. BRRRRING.

My phone explodes to life. The ringtone cuts through the air and everyone jumps because I programmed Isla's school to override every single Do Not Disturb setting I have. When your kid's school calls, the world stops. Period.

"Excuse me." I'm already reaching for it, my stomach doing that thing where it drops straight through the floor. Schools don't call at 2:47 PM unless something's wrong. Really wrong.

"Ms. Romano?" Principal Martinez sounds like he's been running. Or crying. Maybe both. "We have an emergency."

The pharmaceutical people are staring at me like I've grown a second head, but I don't care because that tone in Martinez's voice is making my hands shake.

"What kind of emergency?"

"There's been a malfunction with our building systems. All the classroom doors have automatically locked from the inside. We can't override them. The children are-"

"Where's Isla?"

My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to, and the CEO actually flinches. I don't care. I don't care about anything except the seven-year-old who asked me this morning if I remembered to pack her the good crackers, the ones shaped like fish.

"Room 15 with her class. Twenty-four second graders total. But Ms. Romano, it's worse than just locked doors."

My chest tightens. Because nothing in my life is ever just one problem. There's always a worse thing waiting underneath the first terrible thing.

"Tell me."

"The fire suppression system has been triggered. Automated protocol shows full activation in thirty minutes. If we can't get these doors open before then..."

The room tilts. Actually tilts, like I'm on a boat in rough water. Fire suppression systems don't just spray water. They flood rooms with foam or chemical suppressants. Enough to put out fires. Enough to drown children who can't get out.

My daughter is trapped in a room that's going to flood in thirty minutes.

"I'm coming." I'm already shoving my laptop into my bag, knocking over my coffee cup in the process. SPLASH. The brown liquid spreads across the conference table toward the CEO's pristine presentation materials. "Do NOT let anyone else touch those systems. Don't let the fire department override anything. Don't let IT try to fix it. Nobody touches anything until I get there."

"But Ms. Romano, we have protocols-"

"Your protocols are what got my daughter locked in a death trap." The door handle might as well be made of soap. My palms are slick with panic sweat, fingers trembling like I've been electrocuted. Each time I try to grip the metal, it slides away from me. My body is betraying me when I need it most. When Isla needs me most. I wipe my hand on my skirt – once, twice – and finally get a grip that holds. "I'll talk you through this while I drive," I manage, though my voice sounds like it's coming from someone else's throat.

The pharmaceutical executives are gaping at me like I've lost my mind. The CEO opens his mouth to say something about our meeting, about contracts, about professional obligations.

I don't even slow down.

"Invoice me for the full consultation fee. Your security's garbage, and I just proved it by walking out mid-presentation. Consider that my professional assessment."

SLAM. The door shudders against the frame. Plaster dust drifts from the ceiling.

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK. My heels beat a frantic rhythm against marble. The sound bounces off glass walls, multiplying until it sounds like an army marching. Time becomes a living thing, each second ticking away like drops of my daughter's life leaking through my fingers. Thirty minutes. I can hear it in my heartbeat. Twenty-nine minutes, fifty seconds. The numbers burn behind my eyes. Twenty-nine minutes, forty-five seconds. Each lost moment is a step closer to the unthinkable. The countdown lives in my chest now, heavy and cold as a stone.

The elevator is playing games with me. Somewhere between floors, stopping at every single level while some oblivious person debates whether they actually need their coffee from the third floor break room. I can picture them standing there, finger hovering over buttons, taking their time because they have time. Because their child isn't drowning in thirty minutes. I punch the call button again, harder this time. The plastic cracks under my thumb. I press the button again. And again. The plastic is warm from repeated hits. When the doors finally open, there's a couple inside having some quiet argument about dinner plans.

"Get out." The words come out flat and hard. "Take the next one."

They stare at me. The woman starts to say something about rudeness, about waiting their turn.

"My daughter's trapped in a flooding building. Get. Out."

They scramble past me. The woman's perfume is too strong. Vanilla and desperation. I don't have time for politeness. Social rules cease to exist. Politeness becomes a luxury I can't afford. I don't have space in my brain for please and thank you and excuse me. There's only room for one thing: the little girl who still crawls into my bed during thunderstorms, who leaves me crayon drawings on the kitchen counter, who believes with absolute faith that Mommy can solve anything. That belief is crushing me and saving me at the same time.