My brother’s chest rose again—slightly, but undeniably.
“Call 911!” someone shouted.
The woman grabbed my sleeve tightly. “Not the hospital they use,” she warned urgently. “If he goes back there, he won’t wake up next time.”
Her words chilled me. “Who are you?” I demanded.
“Grace Mitchell,” she replied. “I used to work in clinical research. For your company.”
The pieces began to shift into terrifying alignment. Holloway Dynamics had been testing experimental neural suppressants designed to regulate traumatic brain activity. My brother had confided in me about ethical concerns. If he had refused to move forward with certain trials, he might have become a liability.
My father stepped closer, voice controlled but edged with steel. “This is misinformation.”
My brother’s eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused at first, then they found mine.
“Nate,” he rasped weakly.
“I’m here,” I whispered, gripping his hand.
“They sedated me,” he breathed. “It wasn’t a stroke.”
The room fell silent in collective horror.
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