The sheets were twisted around your legs, damp with sweat. You didn’t remember waking up, but you must have—because you were already upright, hunched over your knees, your hands trembling against the mattress.

Everything hurt.

Your skin felt like it had been sunburned from the inside out. A hive-like rash bloomed across your arms and chest, spreading fast, itching like wildfire. Your legs shook uncontrollably. Hot flashes surged beneath your skin, followed by waves of cold so deep your teeth chattered. You gasped as the pain twisted through your stomach, your throat tightening with panic. It was hard to think. Hard to breathe.

You didn’t mean to cry out. You tried not to wake her.

But the sobs broke out of you anyway—quiet at first, then ragged. You were burning up and freezing and aching and dizzy and nothing made sense.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” Emily was already moving, voice thick with sleep, but alert. Her hands found your shoulders, then jerked away the moment she felt your heat. “Jesus. You’re on fire.”

She turned on the light. Your eyes squeezed shut against the brightness.

“Look at me,” she said firmly, gently, crouching in front of you. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t. All you could do was shake your head as tears ran hot down your cheeks, chest rising in sharp, stuttered gasps.

She saw the rash. The swelling. The way your arms trembled like you were on the verge of seizure. Her face hardened. “Okay. We’re going. Now.”

The next few minutes blurred: Emily throwing on clothes, pulling a hoodie over your head, her voice low but fierce on the phone with 911 as she guided you down the stairs. You didn’t know how you made it to the car. The wind hit your skin like needles. You were sobbing again before she even turned the key in the ignition.

At the ER, the fluorescent lights were too much. The wait was endless. Every second stretched thin and brittle. The triage nurse took your vitals, murmured something about systemic inflammation and flagged you as high priority, but the beds were full. You sat in the corner, curled into yourself like a child, clinging to Emily’s hand.

“I know it hurts,” she whispered, brushing your hair from your damp forehead. “I know, baby. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You tried.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

“I’m not going in,” Emily said into her phone later, when the hospital still hadn’t moved you from the waiting area. “Tell Cruz I’m not leaving.” Her voice was ice, her arm still around your shoulders, her body angled between yours and the rest of the chaotic ER.

Your head lolled against her chest. Dazed. Fever climbing again. Emily kept her palm against your wrist, checking your pulse every few minutes, whispering soft affirmations into your hair—“You’re okay. You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

And still, no answers.

She didn’t leave.

Not when the hours dragged on. Not when the nurse brought you water and a cold compress and a look that said we’re doing what we can. Not even when she got a dozen texts from the team, asking where she was.