The seconds dragged on. No one moved. The only sound in the ICU was the steady pulse of the heart monitor. Then Caleb tilted his head and leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
“There,” he murmured.
“What?” Dr. Whitaker stepped in. “What did you notice?”
Caleb pointed toward Noah’s throat. “Something’s not right.”
Dr. Whitaker frowned. “We’ve examined his airway repeatedly. Scopes, imaging, everything.”
“But did you check there?” Caleb pointed more carefully. “Right where the throat curves. Where it’s hardest to see.”
The doctors exchanged uncertain glances.
Suddenly the machines shrieked. Every monitor flashed red. Alarms pierced the room. Nurses rushed in every direction, rubber soles squeaking across the polished floor.
And in the center of it all stood a small boy.
He was ten. His sweatshirt sleeves were frayed. His sneakers were worn thin. He looked out of place among polished shoes and tailored coats. But his gaze never left the hospital bed, never left the boy lying there, pale and still.
Eighteen doctors had tried.