My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“What is in that syringe, Nurse Benson?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

Her hand paused for a fraction of a second.

Then, she smoothly pushed the needle into the port of the IV line.

“His daily vitamin cocktail,” she said.

“And a mild sedative to prevent muscle spasms.”

I knew she was lying.

The chemical name I had just looked up on my phone was no sedative.

It was a slow poison designed to keep him asleep until his brain withered away.

“He looks paler than he did yesterday,” I said, stepping closer to the bed.

I looked down at Ethan.

His eyelashes fluttered slightly, but his eyes remained shut.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, unnatural rhythm dictated by the machine.

“That is normal for patients in his condition,” Benson said.

She picked up the empty syringe and placed it back on the tray.

As she did, her pocket chimed with a low, muffled vibration.

She reached down quickly, her fingers fumbling with her uniform pocket.