A tiny girl lies in a hospital bed with a dozen tubes coming out of her. Her head is shiny and smooth. Her eyes are closed, her pink lips just slightly open. Her small hands grip the edge of the covers as she breathes slowly. My heart clenches; she’s so young, so tiny, so innocent. I’ll never forgive Lynne for what she’s done, but seeing her daughter like this helps me understand why she fought so hard to save her.
Adam moves beside the bed and opens the Doctor Who lunch box he brought. He pulls out one of the three doses of the cure we found on Lynne’s body and hooks it up to the girl’s IV.
“I’ll have to come back tomorrow night to do the second one,” he says as he steps back. “It has to be delivered over three days, one dose every twenty-four hours.”
“But it’ll work?” I ask. “She’ll b
