“Home,” he stated. “Why? Did you waste money on a doctor?”
My digestive tract turned. “We’re at the hospital,” I stated. “Emma needs emergency surgery.”
A beat of quietude—subsequently irritation. “What kind of surgery?”
“There’s a mass,” I stated. “It could’ve twisted. She’s been in pain for weeks.”
He expelled breath as though I’d informed him the vehicle required new rubber tires. “So you panicked,” he stated. “You always panic.”
“No,” I snapped. “You ignored her.”
Jason’s register sharpened. “Do not make this about me. If it’s expensive, you better figure it out.”
Something chilly clicked into orientation.
Jason did not inquire if Emma was frightened.
He did not inquire if I was stable.
He inquired about expenditures.
