One particularly brutal night, Daniel sat beside her, clutching her icy hand. Her breathing was shallow, her lips nearly white.
“Mom… please stay with me,” he whispered. “Help is coming.”
Even he didn’t believe it.
A faint sound came from the doorway. Soft footsteps. It was the night cleaner—a petite woman named Elena, who’d been working there barely six weeks. She rarely spoke, kept her eyes lowered, and moved quietly through the house.
But this time, she paused.
Daniel noticed her expression. It wasn’t curiosity. It was worry.
“Do you need something?” he asked sharply, exhausted.
Elena hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir… I’ve seen this before. Back where I’m from, in rural Georgia. A woman suffered like this.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “And you think you know more than doctors?”
“No,” Elena said calmly. “Just something different. If you allow me… I could try.”
He was ready to dismiss her—until Margaret suddenly cried out, arching in agony, clutching her left temple. Daniel felt helpless terror rise.
“What would you do?” he asked quietly.