Then he turned—walked toward a corner—and shoved aside a decorative toy chest with surprising strength.
He pressed his ear against the wall.
A doctor scoffed again.
But the boy raised a trembling finger… pointing at a dark patch near the baseboard.
“That,” he said quietly, “is what’s killing your baby.”
Gasps filled the room.
“It’s just dirt,” a doctor snapped.
The boy shook his head.
“No. It’s not.”
Ethan stepped closer, staring at it like it had just revealed itself as something alive.
“How can that hurt her?” he whispered.
“It’s in the air,” the boy said. “Inside the room.”
The head doctor insisted the room was sanitized daily.
The boy looked straight at him.
“Then why does no one ever clean that side?”
Silence.
Ethan turned slowly.
His wife, Olivia, stood stiff nearby—arms crossed too tightly, face pale.
Something shifted.
Then suddenly—the baby coughed.
Sharp. Painful.
The monitors spiked.
“She’s crashing!” the nurse shouted.
“Open the window,” the boy said.
A doctor snapped, “Don’t listen—”
But Ethan already ran.
He threw the window open.
Fresh air rushed in.
The baby’s breathing changed.
Still weak… but less strained.