The plastic lid for the Wednesday slot was slightly warped.

“My mother,” I stammered, my voice barely audible over the beeping of the machines.

“She did something to Megan’s vitamins.”

The doctor snatched the plastic container from my hand.

He flipped it open, sniffing the small yellow tablets inside.

“These aren’t prenatal vitamins,” he said, his face growing pale.

He handed the container to a nurse.

“Run this to the lab immediately,” he ordered. “Tell them to screen for heavy metals and pesticide compounds.”

Megan’s body suddenly went rigid on the table.

The heart monitor began to emit a solid, continuous tone.

“She’s going into cardiac arrest,” the doctor yelled. “Get the crash cart!”

A nurse pushed me roughly toward the hallway.

“You have to wait outside, sir,” she said, her hands on my chest.

“No, let me stay!” I cried out.

The heavy wooden door swung shut in my face, blocking my view.

Through the small glass window, I could see the doctors lining up to begin chest compressions.

The hallway was quiet, save for the distant sound of a television in the waiting area.