"Clinton," I said, my voice trembling with restrained fury, "you studied law, didn't you? Then tell me, why does a six-year-old with an allergic reaction need anesthesia and a bone marrow extraction? Is this legal? Are you really going to let them drain our daughter's bone marrow?"
My words echoed through the hallway, drawing gasps from the onlookers. They turned to look at Clinton and Emerald in shock. The tension in the air thickened as more people gathered around, their curious stares turning into judgmental glares.
"These days, stem cells can be collected from peripheral blood," I continued, my voice louder now. "Why would anyone resort to such a brutal method? She's only six years old! Who would do such a thing without the mother's consent?"
The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, and more phones came out, recording the unfolding drama. Their eyes shifted from me to Emerald, no longer seeing her as a doctor, but as something far darker.
Clinton hesitated, clearly rattled by the growing crowd. "What do you know?" he blustered, his voice sounding weak in comparison. "Doctors have their own considerations. You're in no position to question them."