No one believed her when she said she saw something move deep inside his mouth.
Now, through the ICU glass, she saw the same signs. The boy’s hand drifted to his throat even in unconsciousness.
His color matched her father’s. And when the door opened briefly, she smelled it again—faint, sickly sweet, like damp soil and spoiled meat.
“Mom,” Sofia whispered, tugging Marisol’s sleeve. “He has what Dad had.”
Marisol stiffened. “Sofia, don’t say that. These people are important. We can’t cause trouble.”
“He keeps touching his throat. Dad did that too. He said it itched inside.”
“Enough,” her mother said under her breath. “If I lose this job, we don’t eat. Sit down.”
Sofia obeyed, but she didn’t look away.
Inside the room, alarms began to quicken. Doctors rushed in. William Harrington—the most powerful man in the pharmaceutical industry—collapsed into a chair, weeping in helpless fury.
Sofia felt a cold certainty. Soon the boy would convulse. They would try to intubate him, but the tube wouldn’t pass. He would suffocate—just like her father.
Her hands trembled. She was small. Poor. Invisible. But she was the only one who recognized the pattern.