Chapter 19 · Tainted Drops

Helen came up the stairs at eight-forty with the silver tray, and Willa turned to wood against my ribs before the woman’s heel even touched the runner.

No crying. That was the sickening part about this kid. Six years old, and she’d already learned to swallow her screams down to the bone because this house didn't tolerate noise. Her tiny fingers dug straight through my scrub sleeve. Her breathing went thin, shallow, rabbit-fast.

"Sedative drops," Helen said.

She set the tray down on the marble console outside the nursery door. Polished silver. One glass. One amber bottle. One stiff linen napkin.

"Eight forty-five. Every night. It’s on her protocol."

"I read the protocol," I said.

"Then you know it’s not up for debate, dear."

The *dear* felt like a slap with a velvet glove. I didn’t flinch.

I peeled Willa’s fingers off my forearm one by one, keeping my voice low and level. When I stood, the stitches in my flank pulled hard enough to flash white across my vision. Nine days out of a back-alley clinic chair and I was still moving like someone had taken a crowbar to my ribs. Fine.