I ran past him, my sneakers squeaking on the polished hardwood of the library floor.

“Sarah!” Jason shouted behind me, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway.

I followed Mrs. Gable down the long, dim corridor of the west wing.

The wind from the Hudson River rattled the high, arched windows, sending a draft through the floorboards.

The grand portraits of Thornton ancestors seemed to watch me, their painted eyes cold and accusing.

We reached the end of the hall where Ethan’s medical suite was located.

The heavy double doors were slightly ajar, a sliver of harsh fluorescent light cutting across the carpet.

Inside, the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor had turned into a frantic, high-pitched screech.

I pushed the door open and rushed to the side of the bed.

Ethan’s body was rigid.

His head was turned to the side, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck stood out like cords.

His fingers, usually limp and pale, were clawing at the white bedsheets.

“What is happening to him?” I asked, my voice trembling as I grabbed his hand.