“Hello?”
“Is this Kendall Morrison?” The voice was crisp, professional, underscored by faint beeping and the low murmur of an intercom.
“Yes,” I said, and the word came out smaller than I meant it to.
“This is the Emergency Department at Nationwide Children’s Hospital,” the voice continued. “We have your brother Brandon Morrison and your nephews Leighton and Matteo Rivera here in critical condition. We need you to come in as soon as possible.”
The world narrowed into a high, ringing whine.
“I am sorry,” I said, because my brain grabbed the wrong phrase. “You have who?”
She repeated their names. Brandon. Leighton. Matteo. Each name hit like a punch.
“What happened?” I asked. My voice broke on the last word.
“They presented with seizures and cardiac events within minutes of each other,” she said. “We have stabilized them for now. We are running toxicology. Are you able to come in?”
I do not remember ending the call.
I do not remember grabbing my keys.
I have no memory of the drive down 315, of the way the highway lights smeared into white streaks through tears I did not realize were falling.
I remember one thing with perfect clarity.
Sliding my car into the first open spot I could find, hands shaking so badly I could barely shift into park, and the automatic doors of the ER whooshing open like a mouth.
The smell hit me first.
Antiseptic and fear.
A nurse in bright blue scrubs walked straight up to me like she had been waiting. “Kendall?” she asked.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Come with me.”
The triage area blurred. Kids crying. Parents pacing. Monitors chirping their relentless songs. The nurse’s shoes squeaked against the floor in a rhythm that felt cruelly normal.
A doctor stepped out to meet me. Mid-forties. Gray at his temples. Dark circles under his eyes like he lived here.
“I’m Dr. Harris,” he said. “You are Kendall?”
“Yes.”
He guided me to a cluster of chairs against the wall, as if he already knew I needed help staying upright.
“Your brother and your nephews were brought in about forty minutes ago,” he said. “All three experienced sudden onset seizures followed by cardiac arrest. EMS resuscitated them in the field. We have stabilized them, but they are in critical condition.”
“Cardiac arrest,” I repeated, because the words did not belong to children. “They are twelve, seven, and five.”
“I know,” he said, and his voice softened just slightly. “That is why we are extremely concerned. Their blood work indicates significant levels of a cardiotoxic agent. Something fast-acting. Something that does not look accidental.”
The hallway tilted. A nurse caught my elbow, steadying me.
A cardiotoxic agent.
Fast-acting.
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