Foster kids, when did the other kids save your life?

The Rescue in the Night

Foster kids, when did the other kids save your life? I was getting ready for bed at the group home when my glucose monitor started screaming. Mrs. Wong appeared in my doorway. Inspection clipboard in hand.

“Everyone, lights out.” “State review is tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m.”

And I’m not having any incidents tonight, but my monitor showed 58 and dropping. “Mrs. Wong, I need my emergency glucose tablets.” “It’s real.” She laughed. “Nice try.” “Every inspection.” “One of you pulls a medical stunt trying to sabotage my bonus.”

She walked to the medicine cabinet and pocketed the key. “Nobody touches these until after my review tomorrow.” “Anyone who tries gets sent back to Juvie.” “I know when kids are faking for attention.” I knew I had to act fast. I dove for my mattress where I’d hidden backup glucose gel.

Mrs. Wong grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave marks. “What did I just say?” She found the gel and threw it in her pocket. “Contraband.” “That’s a write up.”

My hands started shaking uncontrollably. The monitor beeped again. 48.

Bradley, my roommate who usually shoved me around, sat up. “Yo, something’s actually wrong with him.” “Look at all that sweat.” “Back to bed.” “Bradley, don’t enable his manipulation.” Mrs. Wong crossed her arms.

I stumbled toward the medicine cabinet. Vision blurring. “Just the glucose tablets, please.” “I’m going to pass out.”

She blocked the cabinet with her whole body. “You want me to lose my perfect record?” “My evaluation is flawless.” “Zero medical incidents this quarter.”

My knees buckled. The tile floor felt like ice against my skin. I started crawling toward her office, where I knew she kept juice boxes. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She stepped on my fingers. I felt something crack. The pain shot up my arm, but the glucose crash made everything distant, like I was underwater. The monitor screamed 42.

Shakira, the quiet one, crept into the hallway. “Should we call 911?” Mrs. Wong yanked the house phone off the wall, unplugging it. “Anyone who calls anyone gets transferred to the detention center.” “I’ll personally make sure of it.”

My legs started giving out. Jordan, the rebellious one, ran to the kitchen. “There’s got to be juice or candy somewhere.” “Kitchen’s locked, too.” She dangled her key ring. “You think I haven’t dealt with faker diabetics before?”

Terrell, the worst bully, actually looked scared. “His lips are literally turning blue.” “That’s not normal.” “Drama class auditions were last week.” Mrs. Wong sneered.

The monitor hit 38. I had maybe 7 minutes before I’d be unconscious. My tongue felt swollen, filling my mouth. I couldn’t form words anymore, but I had to try something. I dragged myself to the bathroom, thinking maybe I could drink from the tap, get any sugar from toothpaste, anything.

Mrs. Wong followed me. “Pathetic.” She kicked the toothpaste out of reach. “Your mother tried this same act last year.” “Claimed you were chronically ill.” “I showed her the door, too.”

That’s when Bradley stood up. “If he dies, that’s on you.” “We’re all witnesses.” Mrs. Wong laughed. “Who believes foster kids over a veteran caregiver with 15 years experience.”

I collapsed against the wall. 4 minutes left. My vision was going dark at the edges. I could taste metal in my mouth. My chest felt like someone was sitting on it. I reached for her ankle, tried to pull myself up, but she shook me off like a bug.

“Don’t touch me with your dirty hands.” “Kiara, do the thing,” Shakira whispered.

The anxious 9-year-old started hyperventilating on purpose. “I can’t breathe.” “I’m having a panic attack.” When Mrs. Wong rushed over, annoyed, Jordan’s hand shot out and snatched her cell from her back pocket.

“Thief!” she spun around, but Jordan had already tossed it to Bradley. The monitor screamed 30. That’s when Terrell did something I’ll never forget. He scooped me up like I weighed nothing. “Everyone move.”

He bulldozed toward the door. “911, foster kid, diabetic emergency.” “Supervisor won’t give medicine,” Bradley yelled into his hidden phone.

Mrs. Wong tried grabbing Terrell’s shirt, but five other kids formed a human wall. Even little Kiara stood firm. “You’re all going to pay for this.” “Your records will follow you forever.”

They carried me to the front lawn. Someone shoved hidden candy into my mouth. The last thing I remember was sirens getting closer and Mrs. Wong screaming about her ruined evaluation while the other kids held her back from reaching me.

But that wasn’t the last time I’d see her face. I woke up to a paramedic saying blood sugar was 26. “Another minute or two and we’d have lost him.”

The police were already there and Shakira had been recording everything on an old iPod she’d hidden. Mrs. Wong was demanding to speak to her supervisor while they cuffed her. But here’s what really got her. Every kid had stories.

Jordan’s seizure meds went missing. Kiara’s anxiety pills were deemed unnecessary. Bradley’s inhaler was locked up for overuse. The investigation revealed she’d been pocketing medication money for years, claiming we were all drug-seeking while collecting bonuses for low medical costs.

She got 8 years for child endangerment and embezzlement. But 8 years wasn’t enough for me. Not after she almost let me die. And Mrs. Wong made one mistake that night. She forgot that foster kids grow up and remember everything. And some of us, we come back.