(Sanya’s POV)
Tyron walks in. Jacket gone. Sleeves rolled to the forearm — precise, even, the kind of roll that takes practice. His eyes are on his phone.
One step into the room, his head snaps up.
His nostrils flare. His eyes go wide — then squeeze shut. When they open again, they're streaming. Tears cut lines down his face, fast and involuntary, and his hand shoots to the doorframe like the floor just tilted under him.
"What — " He chokes. His arm shoots toward the bed, finger jabbing at the glowing spread of leaves, and the look on his face is black. "What is this?"
"I don't know," I say. "They were here when I came in."
He takes one more step and his body stops him. Just stops. His throat seizes — I can hear it, the wet, grinding sound of an airway narrowing — and he stumbles bac
