No machine noises. No footsteps. Nothing.
Just that word sitting there between us.
“She’ll recover?” I ask.
The doctor does not answer fast enough.
Rage flashes so hot it nearly blinds me.
“She will recover,” I say, because suddenly this is not a question he gets to fumble.
He clears his throat. “We are doing everything we can. The next twelve hours matter. The toxin stressed her body badly and triggered the labor. We need the lab confirmation to target treatment more precisely.”
I stare at him until he looks like he regrets every career choice that led him into my line of sight.
Then I nod once. “Do whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir.” He leaves before I can say anything else.
Mother is the first one to speak. “How could she have been poisoned?” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts straight through the corridor.
I look at her. For once, I don’t have an answer.
Because I don’t know.
Not yet. But I will.
“I’m going to find out,” I say. The words come out flat. Absolute.
My mother studies my face for a second, then nods once. She knows that tone. Knows there is no comfort left in me now, only purpose.
I wait until the doctor reappears at the far end of the hall and pull him aside before he can disappear into another room. “I want every possible test run,” I say. “Not broad guesses. I want the toxin identified.”
He glances toward the chart in his hands, then back at me. “We’ve already sent the initial bloods. Toxicology is working the panel now.”
“That’s not enough.”
“We’re doing a full screen. But depending on the substance, it can take a few hours to narrow it down properly.”
A few hours. A few hours while she lies in recovery. A few hours while whoever did this is still breathing.
I step closer. Not enough to touch him. Enough that he understands exactly how serious I am. “Then take the hours. Use all of them. But when you come back to me, I want certainty.”
He nods quickly. “Yes, sir.” Only then do I let him leave.
A nurse eventually tells me I can see her.
Recovery looks nothing like peace.
The room is dimmer, quieter, too warm. Machines hum softly in corners. There’s an oxygen monitor clipped to her finger, an IV at her arm, her skin too pale against the white pillow. Her hair is brushed back, but the bruising at her temple is still there, ugly and real. One more mark I wasn’t there soon enough to prevent.
She’s awake when I walk in.
Not fully alert. Tired in that bone-deep way that comes after too much pain and too little blood. But awake enough that her eyes find mine immediately.
I stop beside the bed.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
