It was a gray California morning, the kind where the air felt heavier, like something was about to happen. I barely noticed, though. I was too focused on Jamie—my one-year-old son. He had been feverish all night, his tiny body burning up as I rocked him, whispering that everything would be okay.

Since my wife passed during childbirth, it had been just the two of us. I was doing my best, but mornings like this—when exhaustion clung to me like a second skin—made me wonder if my best was enough.

I boarded the bus, cradling Jamie against my chest. His breath was warm, his little hands limp. We had to get to the doctor fast.

The bus jolted forward, and an older woman stepped up, fumbling in her worn purse. Her face fell. She didn’t have enough fare.

The driver scowled. *“I’m not a charity.”*

Without thinking, I pulled out a couple of crumpled bills and handed them over.

The woman’s eyes met mine, soft and knowing. *“Thank you,”* she whispered.

As I stepped off at the clinic, she reached out, pressing a small note into my hand. *“You’ll need this,”* she murmured before disappearing into the crowd.

Confused, I stuffed the paper in my pocket and rushed inside.

Twenty minutes later, the doctor frowned at Jamie’s chart. *“We’ll need to run some tests.”*

Panic surged in my chest. *“Is it serious?”*

*“We’ll see. Just sit tight.”*

As I waited, I remembered the note. I unfolded it, and my stomach **dropped.**

The message was scrawled in shaky handwriting:

**“Your son isn’t sick. He’s being poisoned.”**

My breath caught. My hands trembled.

*”This can’t be real…”*

I glanced down at Jamie, his pale face nestled against my shirt.

And then, like a puzzle piece clicking into place, I remembered—

How his fevers always happened after staying with my late wife’s family.

How they insisted on *helping* me, making his meals, giving him medicine.

How my mother-in-law never quite looked me in the eye.

I stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor.

*”Doctor—”* I choked out. *”Run every test you have. Now.”*