She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Ms. Saldivar is asking to speak to you. She's asked three times. The ER attending would rather she rest, but she's awake and she's medically stable for now and she's an adult, and she's getting more agitated about it, not less. She says there's something she has to tell you before she tells me anything. I'm inclined to let her, because I would very much like her to tell me things." She put her glasses back on. "Do you know what she wants to say?"
Lazaro looked down the hall toward the double doors of the emergency department, where the light was brighter and somebody was paging a respiratory therapist over the intercom.
"I've got an idea," he said.
They had her in a curtained bay at the far end of the emergency department, sitting up on a stretcher with a nasal cannula under her nose and a pulse oximeter clipped to one finger and a monitor overhead putting out a green line that went up and down in a way Lazaro found he could still read without trying. Ninety-six percent. Heart rate a hundred and four. Respirations sixteen. The left side of her jaw was visibly swollen, the skin there tight and shiny. Somebody had given her a blanket from the warmer and she had it pulled up to her chin, and over it her eyes found him the moment he came around the curtain.
He stayed standing. There was a plastic chair, but he left it where it was.
"They told me it'll wear off," she said. Her voice was hoarse and very quiet. "The Narcan. They said I could stop breathing again when it wears off, and that's why they have to keep me. Six hours, they said. Maybe overnight."
"That's right."
"They said if you'd given me just the one dose and gone home, I'd probably be dead by now."
"Maybe. Depends how much was in it."
She looked down at her hands on the blanket. One of them had an IV in the back of it, taped down. The other was clenched.
"Is Emi okay?"