His wife was in Miami at a conference. Just two days away. And their son had five.
The door opened.
Daniel wiped his face, expecting a nurse.
Instead, a little girl stepped in.
She was about six, wearing a faded school uniform and an oversized gray sweater. Her dark hair was messy, as if she’d been running. In her hand was a cheap gold-colored plastic bottle.
“Who are you?” Daniel asked sharply. “How did you get in here?”
She didn’t answer. She walked to Tommy’s bed with startling determination, climbed onto a step stool, and studied him like she saw something no one else could.
“I’m going to save him,” she said.
Before Daniel could react, she unscrewed the cap.
“Wait—”
Too late.
She poured water gently over Tommy’s face.
Daniel lunged forward, pulling the bottle away.
“What are you doing?” he shouted. “Get out!”
Tommy coughed once. Then silence again.
The girl clutched the bottle. “He needs it. It’s special water. He’ll get better.”
Two nurses rushed in.
From the hallway, a woman’s voice cried out, “Sophie! What did you do?”
A hospital janitor hurried in — a tired-looking woman in her thirties. “I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I’m Lisa. She’s my daughter. We’re leaving.”