What happened next in our series of unfortunate events is actually quite difficult for me to relive, but I've written about as many details as I could while I sobbed here at the computer and Annie stroked my arm and begged me not to cry. Forgive the particularly sloppy writing.
"Your body temperature is 100.7 degrees fahrenheit," the thermometer said aloud when I scanned Annie's forehead. The slight fever didn't worry me very much, though I did wonder if Sam was ill not from his shots but from something contagious the few days before we left. I had brought some ibuprofen with me as a precautionary measure but I couldn't give it to my little sicky until Paul came back with the car and the puke bowl inside. Ibuprofen always makes Annie throw up. I situated her in bed and put on cartoons while we waited. I sat on the bed beside her and watched some YouTube videos with my headphones on. About a minute into my video I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see Annie's hands flailing in the air while the rest of her body seized and shook. I ripped off my headphones and ran to her side, screaming her name and instantly sobbing. As irrational as it may seem, that pessimistic voice in my head kept repeating, "You're going to lose her. You're going to lose her." Her eyes starred up at the ceiling, devoid of the spark that usually fills them, and I held her and cried as I grasped for my phone with one hand. Alone and with no car, I dialed 911 and begged the dispatcher for help. She sent an ambulance and stayed with me on the line.