“Vivian!" Ethan's shout snapped down the corridor as her knees buckled.
“I've got you," he said, scooping her up. Her scarf slid, peonies bobbed on the bedside table, monitors hummed their indifferent harmony.
“Wait," Amelia said, stepping in front of him. “Ethan—one vial. Please."
“Move," he barked, shifting Vivian higher in his arms.
Amelia grabbed his sleeve. “I am begging you—our daughter—"
“You're delaying treatment," he snapped. “You'd risk her life to make a point?"
“To save Emma," Amelia said.
Vivian's head lolled against his shoulder. “Don't… fight," she breathed.
“Get out of my way," Ethan said.
“No."
He shoved. It wasn't theatrical; it was reflexive, a removal of an obstacle. His forearm hit Amelia's shoulder; the corridor tilted; her back met the wall, then the floor.
