William barely glanced at him. “Not now, son. We’re losing our child.”
Ethan held out the wallet. “I found it outside your office.”
Sophia took it quickly. “Check if anything’s missing.”
A doctor snapped, “Get him out.”
But Ethan wasn’t paying attention to them.
He was staring at the baby.
At the swelling on one side of the child’s neck.
Too small. Too precise.
Not like a tumor.
Like something stuck.
“It’s not a tumor,” Ethan said quietly.
The doctors scoffed.
“And how would you know?” one asked.
Ethan hesitated. “When he tried to breathe… something moved right here.” He pointed under his jaw.
Then—
The monitor went silent.
Flatline.
Sophia screamed.
The doctors stepped back.
Security grabbed Ethan to pull him away.
But William looked at him again—really looked this time—and saw something different.
Not arrogance.
Not attention-seeking.
Just concern.
“You think it’s not a tumor,” William said hoarsely. “Then what is it?”
Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dented bottle of herbal oil his grandfather used.
“I sort trash every day,” he said softly. “You learn to notice what’s missing.”
Earlier, he had seen a broken charm on the baby carrier. A red bead was missing.
“Please,” he said. “Let me try.”
The lead doctor protested immediately. “This is ridiculous.”
William snapped, “You just told me my son is gone. What do I have to lose?”
Silence.
“Let him try.”
Ethan stepped forward.
The baby lay still. Pale. Lifeless.
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