Jermaine swallowed, his throat dry.
Inside the room, Dr. Rook muttered, “We are out of time. I do not understand. He should be responding to treatment.”
Gregory Sutcliffe paced behind the doctors. His suit looked perfect, but his face was collapsing. His wife, Vivian Sutcliffe, held a silk handkerchief to her mouth, her knees trembling.
“Someone do something,” Vivian whispered. “Please.”
Jermaine’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He knew something the experts did not know. Ghost Lily could poison by touch and by proximity. Its residues could cling to metal and fabric. A baby’s lungs were too small to fight it.
He had two choices. Stay silent and safe. Or speak and risk everything. He remembered the sign by the front foyer last month: Staff must remain out of guest view between 9 AM and 9 PM.
Behind those words lurked a command. Do not exist. Jermaine inhaled. The world smelled like disinfectant and fear. He ran. He burst through the double doors before he could lose his nerve. Voices exploded around him.
“Get that boy out of here,” a nurse shouted.
Gregory glared. “Who let him in? This area is restricted.”
Dr. Rook snapped, “Security.”