The monitor alarm began at 3:16 in the afternoon.

Emergency red backup lights clicked on with a dull hum, casting long, crimson shadows across the hallway walls.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Gable said, putting down her knitting needles. "Must be a blown transformer with the storm outside. Stay right here, Ethan. I’m going to step to the nurse's station to ask how long the power will be down."

"Mrs. Gable, wait—" Ethan started, but the old woman had already shuffled out into the dimly lit corridor.

Ethan sat alone in the small waiting room. Rain lashed against the large glass windows, the sound echoing ominously in the quiet room. He hugged his knees to his chest.

Suddenly, he heard the soft, rhythmic squeak of rubber soles against the linoleum floor. It wasn't the quick, hurried pace of the nurses. It was slow. Deliberate.

Ethan peeked around the frame of the waiting room door.

At the far end of the hallway, illuminated by the eerie red glow of an emergency exit sign, stood his father.

Mark was no longer wearing his jacket. He wore a set of light blue hospital scrubs he must have stolen from a changing locker downstairs, along with a surgical mask hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes looked hollow, sunken, and wild. He was holding a small, clear plastic tube with a needle attached—a pre-filled syringe.

Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He pulled back behind the door frame, pressing his hand over his own mouth to stifle his breathing.

Mark wasn't looking for Ethan. He was walking directly toward Room 412—Laura’s room.

"Dad..." Ethan whispered to himself, terror paralyzing his limbs.

He knew what was in that syringe. He didn't know the name of the drug, but he knew that if Mark reached his mother’s bedside again, there would be no Dr. Bennett to stop him this time. The doctors thought she was safe because her heart was beating, but Mark was coming to finish what he started.

Ethan had two choices: run to find Mrs. Gable and security, or go to his mother’s room right now.

If he ran for help, Mark would already be inside the room by the time anyone returned.

Ethan took a deep breath, squeezed the straps of his backpack, and slipped out into the dark hallway, staying close to the wall.

He moved silently, keeping his footsteps light, matching his movements to the rumble of thunder outside. Mark reached the door of Room 412, pushed it open, and slipped inside.

Ethan reached the door two seconds later. The heavy door hadn't latched completely; it remained propped open by a fraction of an inch.

Ethan pressed his eye against the crack.

Inside the dimly lit room, the monitors were humming on backup battery power. Laura lay completely unconscious, her chest rising and falling with the deep, mechanical rhythm of the ventilator.

Mark stood over her bed. He pulled the plastic cap off the needle with his teeth and spat it onto the floor.

"I'm sorry, Laura," Mark whispered, his voice trembling, sounding broken and insane all at once. "I didn't want it to end like this. But if you wake up... if you talk to them... they’ll take everything. I’ll lose everything. You wouldn't want me to go to prison, Laura. You always loved me."

He raised the needle toward the rubber port on Laura’s intravenous IV line.

"Stop!"

Ethan threw the heavy door open with all his strength. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang that echoed down the quiet hallway.

Mark spun around, his eyes wide with shock. "Ethan?!"

"Get away from her!" Ethan screamed, rushing forward and grabbing a heavy metal medical tray from the bedside table. He swung it with both hands, slamming it against Mark’s forearm.

The syringe flew out of Mark’s hand, bouncing across the floor and rolling beneath the heavy base of the life-support machine.

Mark cursed in pain, clutching his arm, then turned his terrifying, enraged gaze upon his son.

"You little brat!" Mark hissed, stepping over the IV lines toward Ethan. "You've ruined everything! Do you have any idea what you've done to this family?!"

Ethan didn't back down. He stood directly between his father and his mother’s bed, holding the metal tray up like a weapon, his teeth grit, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You're not her husband!" Ethan yelled at the top of his lungs. "You're a monster!"

Mark lunged forward, grabbing Ethan by the shoulders and throwing him to the ground. The metal tray clattered noisily across the floor. Mark reached down to grab Ethan’s shirt, but before he could pull the boy up, the room’s doors were kicked wide open.

"Step away from the boy! Hands where I can see them!"

Detective Miller stood in the doorway, her service weapon drawn and aimed directly at Mark’s chest. Behind her stood Dr. Bennett and two armed police officers.

Mark froze, looking from the gun to his son, then at his wife’s monitoring screen. The realization hit him all at once: it was over.

"Drop to your knees! Now!" Miller commanded.

Mark slowly let go of Ethan’s collar. He raised his hands into the air, a pathetic, defeated expression washing over his face, and sank to his knees on the cold floor. The officers rushed in, slamming him down and pulling his arms behind his back to snap on the steel handcuffs.

Dr. Bennett ran straight past them, dropping to her knees beside Ethan. "Ethan! Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

Ethan didn't answer. He scrambled up off the floor, ignored the police, ignored his father being dragged out of the room in chains, and grabbed his mother’s limp hand.