Two guards approached. Jermaine held up both hands, fingers shaking.
“The plant,” he said. “The white one. Ghost Lily. Digitalis. It is poisonous. It is killing him. You need to get it out of here and clean everything it touched.”
The room went still. For a moment, silence looked like violence.
Vivian blinked through tears. “What are you talking about?”
Jermaine pointed at the windowsill. “That plant. It leaves toxic oil. If someone touched it and then touched the crib, the poison spread. His skin color, his heart rate dropping, the short breaths. It matches what my grandmother used to warn about.”
Dr. Rook scoffed. “We are dealing with a complex and unidentified—”
“Check his symptoms against digitalis poisoning,” Jermaine said, voice cracking but clear. “Please. I am not lying.”
A monitor screeched. The baby’s oxygen saturation dipped once more.
Gregory’s face went gray. “Do it,” he ordered.
Dr. Rook hesitated. He looked at the monitor again. He glanced at the plant. Then he snapped to a nurse, “Remove it. Place it in a containment bag. Call toxicology.”