“Yes,” I whispered.
“Come with me.”
The triage area blurred. Kids crying. Parents pacing. Monitors chirping their relentless songs. The nurse’s shoes squeaked against the floor in a rhythm that felt cruelly normal.
A doctor stepped out to meet me. Mid-forties. Gray at his temples. Dark circles under his eyes like he lived here.
“I’m Dr. Harris,” he said. “You are Kendall?”
“Yes.”
He guided me to a cluster of chairs against the wall, as if he already knew I needed help staying upright.
“Your brother and your nephews were brought in about forty minutes ago,” he said. “All three experienced sudden onset seizures followed by cardiac arrest. EMS resuscitated them in the field. We have stabilized them, but they are in critical condition.”
“Cardiac arrest,” I repeated, because the words did not belong to children. “They are twelve, seven, and five.”
“I know,” he said, and his voice softened just slightly. “That is why we are extremely concerned. Their blood work indicates significant levels of a cardiotoxic agent. Something fast-acting. Something that does not look accidental.”
The hallway tilted. A nurse caught my elbow, steadying me.
A cardiotoxic agent.
Fast-acting.
Not accidental.
In my mind I saw the chocolates again, glossy and perfect, lined up in their little gold cradle.
“Doctor,” I forced out, throat raw, “they ate chocolate. A fancy box of it at my dad’s house. Could that be…”
“We are running full toxicology on blood and stomach contents,” he said. “But yes. If something was introduced into the chocolates, that would be a plausible delivery method.”
His words continued. Ventilators. Drips. Monitoring. ICU transfer.
But my brain latched onto one truth and would not release it.
