A doctor snapped, “Remove him. This is a sterile environment.”
But Leo wasn’t looking at them.
He was looking at the baby.
The swelling on the right side of the infant’s neck.
Too precise. Too small.
Not like a tumor.
Like something stuck.
“It’s not a mass,” Leo said quietly.
The doctors scoffed.
“And what would you know?” one muttered.
Leo swallowed. “When he tried to breathe, something moved right here.” He pointed under his own jaw.
The heart monitor went silent.
Flatline.
Isabelle screamed.
Doctors stepped back slowly.
Time of death approached.
Security grabbed Leo’s arm to escort him out.
But Richard suddenly looked at the boy — really looked at him — and saw something no one else had.
Not arrogance.
Not attention-seeking.
Genuine concern.
“You said it’s not a tumor,” Richard said hoarsely. “What is it?”
Leo reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny dented bottle of herbal oil his grandfather used when dust clogged their lungs.
“I separate trash every day,” Leo said softly. “You learn to notice what’s missing.”
Earlier in the lobby, Leo had seen a broken toy charm hanging from the baby’s carrier. One red bead was gone.
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