Chapter 2 - The Vanishing Girl
“She was right there,” Richard insisted, turning in a full circle as the first wave of airport paramedics finally arrived with their heavy trauma kits and oxygen tanks. “She was kneeling right beside me. She had a purple backpack with safety pins.”
Colin Dray scanned the surging crowd of passengers, his expression a mixture of lingering shock and professional disbelief. “Mr. Harrison, nobody’s paying attention to backpacks right now. The paramedics are here. Let’s get Ethan onto the stretcher. The private hangar called—the Gulfstream is fueled and ready for immediate departure to the Johns Hopkins pediatric unit in Baltimore.”
“No, Colin. Listen to me,” Richard said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made executive boards tremble. He knelt down, his fingers brushing the small, silver lithium battery that still lay near the marble pillar. He picked it up carefully, holding it in his palm like a rare jewel. “A seven-year-old girl just diagnosed an airway obstruction, performed a textbook pediatric Heimlich sweep, knew about a cerebral shunt behind my son’s ear—information that isn't on any medical bracelet—and then vanished into thin air before I could even say thank you.”
“Kids read things online, sir. Or maybe she saw it on television—”
“That wasn't television, Colin,” Richard interrupted, standing up as the paramedics transferred Ethan onto a mobile gurney. Ethan was breathing steadily now, though he looked exhausted, his head resting against the pillow while a paramedic fitted a clear oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
“Dad?” Ethan mumbled around the mask, his small hand reaching out blindly.
Richard caught his son’s fingers instantly, squeezing them tightly. “I’m right beside you, Ethan. Every step of the way. We’re going to the hospital just to make sure everything is functioning properly, okay?”
“The... the girl,” Ethan whispered, his eyelids drooping. “She... she told me not to be scared. She said her brother has a chair too.”
Richard froze. “Her brother has a wheelchair?”
“Yeah. In the terminal... she said her name is Maya. She lives... she lives near the railyards.”
Before Richard could ask another question, the medical team wheeled Ethan briskly toward the private service elevator that led down to the tarmac. Colin moved to follow, but Richard held up a single hand, stopping his assistant in his tracks.
“Colin,” Richard said, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Maya had been kneeling moments before.
“Yes, Mr. Harrison?”
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“Find her.”
“Sir, we have a private jet waiting, and the quarterly shareholder meeting in New York is—fuck the shareholder meeting,” Richard snapped, a rare flash of raw emotion breaking through his polished veneer. “Find that girl. Find out who she is, where she lives, and why a child with safety pins holding her bag together knows more about pediatric neurology than the entire medical staff of this airport. Do whatever it takes.”
