Lazaro looked at him properly. It took a second. The face had gotten heavier and the hair was gone, but the eyes were the same, wide-set and earnest, the eyes of a twenty-two-year-old who had thrown up behind the rig after his first pediatric arrest and then come back and asked if he could ride the next shift too.
"Nestor," Lazaro said. "Mrozek. Look at you."
"Holy—" Nestor Mrozek caught himself, glanced at the boy, and turned back to his patient. His hands kept moving the whole time; Lazaro was glad to see that. "Two doses?"
"Two. Four milligrams each. First at sixteen forty-four, second about two and a half minutes later. Return of spontaneous respirations at about sixteen forty-eight. She vomited once, airway's been clear. Pill on the floor and the bottle on the sink."
The woman with the gray braid had already bagged the pill. She held the brown bottle up to the light. "This says amoxicillin," she said.
"I saw," said Lazaro.
Celestina was trying to sit up. Nestor put a hand flat on her collarbone and kept her where she was without any force at all. "Ma'am, stay down for me. You're okay. You're going to come with us to Arnot Ogden. Can you tell me your name?"
"Celestina." Her voice was raw. "Celestina Saldivar. I didn't. I didn't take anything. I don't—" She was looking past the medic at Lazaro, and then at her son, who had backed up against the hallway wall. "Emi. Emi, baby, come here."
"Just a second, ma'am," Nestor said gently. "Let's get you on the stretcher first."
The patrol officer in the kitchen was a woman about Celestina's age with a short practical haircut and a name tag that said OSTROWE. She had her notebook out but she wasn't writing in it yet. She was watching the boy. When the medics began maneuvering the stretcher chair through the narrow hall, she moved without fuss to stand beside Emi, not touching him, just near, a body between him and the clutter of equipment, and she said, "Hey, bud. You did a good job getting help. That was a smart thing."
Emi did not answer her. He was looking at Lazaro.