The nurse pointed to a series of red numbers flashing at the bottom.

“Her blood pressure is dropping rapidly, Mr. Whitmore,” she said.

“And her heart rate is climbing.”

My chest felt as though a heavy iron band were tightening around it.

Every breath required a conscious, painful effort.

The steady beep of the cardiac monitor grew faster, its pitch rising.

“Claire,” Daniel said, stepping back to my bedside.

He set the tablet on the rolling tray table.

He took my hand, his grip firm and warm.

“I need you to stay with me,” he whispered.

“Don’t focus on the machines.”

“I can’t catch it,” I gasped, my voice barely a whisper.

“My breath.”

The door swung open wider, and Dr. Shah hurried into the room.

His white coat rustled as he moved to the opposite side of my bed.

He placed his stethoscope against my chest, his expression grim.

“The stress is triggering a severe vasovagal response,” Dr. Shah said to Daniel.

“Her cardiovascular system is struggling to cope with the acute anxiety.”

“Then fix it,” Daniel said.

His voice was quiet, but it held a sharp, commanding edge.