My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass.

“Please,” I whispered.

“Please don’t take them.”

A nurse closed the blinds from the inside, cutting off my view.

The yellow plastic slats clicked shut.

I was left looking at my own reflection in the dusty glass.

The hallway was a blur of blue scrubs and metal trays.

An older doctor with grey hair came out of the side room.

“Are you the husband?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Is she going to make it?”

“We are administering the antidote now,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“But the poison has already entered her bloodstream.”

“What about the baby?” I asked.

“The baby is seven months along,” he said.

“If the mother’s oxygen levels drop too low, we will have to perform an emergency C-section right here.”

“But she’s not ready,” I said.

“We don’t have a choice if we want to save either of them,” the doctor said.

He looked down at his clipboard, then back at me.

“The police are on their way.”