Chapter Text
Their house was nearly empty.
Agatha stood in the vacant living room and allowed the silence to settle around her. Boxes littered the floor, remnants of their lives hastily packed away. The walls were bare of the memories that once hung proudly, trapped in time in an assortment of wooden frames.
She scanned the room once more but eyes stopped this time at the box that stood by the door, almost overflowing with her degrees and achievements. For some reason she couldn’t help but think about how her mother had never seen them. She hadn’t seen much of anything in Agatha’s life. Never once set foot in Boston, not since Agatha had left Salem at eighteen with a suitcase full of textbooks and a full ride to Harvard. She still remembered the way her mother had stood in the doorway that morning, arms folded, expression unreadable.
“There’s no power in their kind of knowledge, you’ll come crawling back when it fails you.”
She never did go back. Never spoke to her again. She never even told her about Nicky.
Her mother still sent letters sometimes, long-winded things scrawled in red ink, always reeking of sage and disapproval. Guidance, she called it. A reminder of the true path. Agatha burned the last one without even opening it.
Still, on the worst nights, when Nicky was struggling to breathe and the monitors wouldn’t stop beeping, she’d hear her mother’s voice anyway. Whispering, “You’ll never find true healing through a microscope.”
She forced herself to look away. Those would be going to storage, along with certain things she couldn’t bring herself to toss. She had sold some of the bigger things, donated what they no longer needed. She couldn’t bring herself to donate Nicky’s toys though. She had packed them up safely in a box and told herself he’d be able to actually play with them when they came home.
Their home would be rented out for the time being. It wasn’t ideal. She hated the idea of strangers living in their space, touching their things, sleeping in their beds. The extra income would help though. Even with a stable job, savings and careful budgeting, Agatha was drowning under the weight of Nicky’s medical bills. Her job had paid well but no salary was enough for all this. Especially not when insurance had already declared most of Nicky’s treatments as “too experimental” to cover.
That was the word they used. Experimental. As if that made it less necessary. As if the clinical trial across the country wasn’t his only chance at stabilizing. At surviving. Insurance would cover the basics: general hospital stays, standard medications, oxygen tanks. But not the daily specialist consultations. Not the private nursing, not the constant tests and imaging. And definitely not the off-label treatments or the bespoke equipment his care would now require.
Agatha had tried to keep working through it all, cutting her hours, going fully remote, taking meetings from hospital cafeterias and reviewing data while Nicky dozed beside her. But biotech wasn’t a job you could half-do, not at her level. Eventually, she had to let go. Stepping away from the lab, from the career she’d built with everything she had, felt like tearing off her own skin. But there was never really a decision. Nicky was the only thing that mattered.
Nicky was currently asleep on the couch, curled into a ball under two blankets, his small body barely taking up a third of the couch. His skin looked pale in the late morning light, translucent almost. She tried not to stare.
He hadn’t had the energy to touch his toys in months. He hadn't been to school in over a year.
A framed photo sat in her hands. It was one of Nicky, at three years old, barefoot on the sand, mouth wide open in a laugh. That summer felt like life-times ago. Back then life felt kind and giving. Now it only took .
She shook herself out of her daze and placed the frame in a box with the rest of the photos. She didn’t have time to wallow in the past. Nicky needed her here, in the present.
She pulled the last flap over the photos box and pressed the tape down.
That was the final box.
Final .
Final was a word she hated now. It always sounded so certain, so absolute. Hospitals were full of words like that. Prognosis. Terminal. Final.
Her stomach twisted. Perhaps she should have made a different choice. Found a trial closer to home. Another doctor. Got a fifth opinion.
But there wasn’t time anymore. Not for maybe’s. Not for waiting lists or appeals or slow bureaucratic mercy.
She was moving them all the way across the country. A six hour flight. Would Nicky even be able to handle it? She wasn’t sure. What she did know was if they didn’t go now they may never get the chance again.
She thought back to the night she sent the email to Dr. Vidal. The night everything was put into motion.
Nicky had finally fallen asleep, his small body curled against the heating pad, a faint hiss marking the rhythm of his oxygen flow. The soft light of the kitchen lamp bathed the room in a dull gold, casting long shadows over the medical equipment lined along the counters, like intruders in a home that used to be just theirs.
Agatha had sat at the table with her laptop open, an untouched mug of coffee beside her, fingers hovering over the keys.
Dr. Vidal,
I hope this email finds you well. My son has mitochondrial disease, specifically mitochondrial myopathy with suspected Leigh syndrome. He’s six years old. He’s slipping fast.
His current care plan includes CoQ10, L-Carnitine, Riboflavin, and multiple metabolic supports. Nothing is working. He’s deteriorating by the week. His last MRI shows lesions on the brainstem and basal ganglia. His oxygen requirements have doubled in the last two months.
I’ve read your work. Your published cases, your trial data. I know you’ve dealt with this kind of progression before, and I believe you understand the urgency better than anyone.
We’ve exhausted every standard protocol. If you’re willing to see him, we’ll come to you.
– Agatha Harkness
She’d stared at it. Re-read it. Had fought the instinct to explain herself more, to prove she was more than just another desperate parent grasping at hope.
But at the end of the day that’s exactly what she was.
She’d hit send before she’d lost her nerve.
The house felt colder after, like it knew she had just given up the last of her professional pride, her boundaries and her carefully composed life.
She opened her inbox again now, just to make sure the last email from San Diego hadn’t vanished in the night like a cruel dream.
The reply had come just five hours later.
Bring him to San Diego.
– R. Vidal
In the kitchen, Agatha double checked Nicky’s medications, lined them up like little soldiers in a padded travel case.
Anticonvulsants, antiemetics, stool softeners, anti-inflammatories. Supplements in powdered, chewable, and liquid form. His mito cocktails: coenzyme Q10, L-carnitine, riboflavin. Each one labeled and portioned into small amber bottles she had to argue with the pharmacist to fill early.
The emergency seizure meds were triple checked. Those went in her carry-on. She double checked the bag’s outer pockets for travel sized disinfectant, gloves, a laminated sheet with Nicky’s emergency info, and a Ziploc full of hard candy to coax him through altitude shifts.
His medical records were stuffed into a worn purple folder and tucked into the laptop sleeve, sandwiched between her tablet and a paperback she knew she wouldn’t touch.
His oxygen tank was already packed, tucked neatly into its rolling case with the backup cannula and spare tubing.
A doctor’s note explaining every item, printed on letterhead and signed in blue ink.
The feeding pump was drained and cleaned. Two weeks’ worth of formula and backup tubing had to be boxed separately and would all be checked in as medical cargo. She hated handing that off to strangers. But it was too bulky to carry onboard. She checked it again anyway. The portable nebuliser and the oximeter however would stay with her.
She stared at the portable feeding pump as she calculated the hours: six-hour flight, add delays, possible layover or diversion. They could just make it with gravity feeds and oral intake.
She’d packed two full changes of clothes for him in her own bag, any more than that, and she’d lose space for her own things. His pyjamas. His favorite plushie, a worn rabbit lovingly dubbed Mr. Scratchy that he insisted on keeping even as the years went by. Two blankets: one weighted, one fleece.
Her coat still smelled like antiseptic from their last ER visit. She debated leaving it behind, then slipped it over the back of the chair. The pockets were already full of gauze packets, wipes and a thermometer. Easy access.
Agatha forced herself to take a breath, confident that everything was where it should be and ready to go.
She looked at the clock.
Ten minutes Jen and Alice would be there soon to drive them to the airport.
Agatha was grateful for them. They’d shown up, no questions, no pity, just quiet, consistent support. It was something she wasn’t used to. Something she hadn’t known how badly she needed.
At first she hadn’t wanted to tell anyone . Telling people made it real. It also meant they looked at her with something akin to sympathy and pity. She didn’t want or need their pity. She could support Nicky by herself like she had been doing his whole life.
But Jen and Alice hadn’t looked at her with pity. They had looked at her like someone who deserved help. They hadn’t hesitated, jumping in to help her sort out her affairs and pack up their lives in the short window between the email and the flight.
Agatha walked over to the couch and crouched down beside it. She studied her son for a long moment before gently stirring him awake.
“Nicky,” she said softly, brushing her fingers gently through his long locks of hair.
He stirred but didn’t open his eyes.
“Aunty Jen and Alice are almost here, it's time to go, baby.”
He blinked up at her, then gave a sleepy smile, soft and trusting. It broke her a little, how much he still believed in good things.
He yawned and nestled closer. “Are we going to see the new doctor now?”
She hesitated just a breath, then nodded. “Yeah, we are.”
His small brow furrowed. “Is it far?”
“Pretty far,” she said, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “But they’re gonna try really hard to help you feel better. And I’ll be with you the whole way.”
There was a quiet moment between them. Then he mumbled, “Maybe after… we could still go to the beach?”
Agatha smiled, achingly soft. “Yeah, baby. After.”
A knock on the front door interrupted before they could continue.
Agatha leaned down and pressed a kiss to his head. “Wait there I'll be back in two seconds. “
She opened the door and was immediately pulled into a crushing hug. Normally, she’d tense at that kind of affection. But today just this once she let it happen.
No words were spoken at first. Just an exchange of looks, grief, love, understanding.
“We brought snacks for the journey,” Alice finally said, handing over a small paper. “You have a habit of forgetting to eat when you’re focused on Nicky.”
“Thank you,” Agatha murmured, accepting it. “You didn’t have to–”
“Yeah yeah, we just don’t want you passing out on Nicky” Jen said, brushing past her into the living room. “Speaking of where is my favorite godchild?”
“Your only godchild you mean.” Agatha muttered as she shut the door.
“Hi Aunty Jen,” Nicky called from the couch, still half-asleep but smiling now.
“Ready for your big trip?”
“Yep!” Nicky grinned, but it lacked the wild excitement it once held for things like playgrounds or beaches. “Mama says there’s a new doctor who’s really smart.”
Agatha felt her heart pull tight. That was the version of the truth she’d settled on, not a lie, just a softer lens. He didn’t need to know that this doctor was his last shot as survival.
“She is,” Agatha said, smoothing his hair. “She’s one of the best. And she’s going to learn everything she can about your special lungs.”
Nicky nodded, thoughtful. “So maybe I won’t need the tube all the time anymore?”
Agatha paused, keeping her face steady. “That’s the hope, baby.”
Jen glanced between them, her eyes a little too wet to meet Agatha’s for long. She didn’t say anything, just gave Nicky’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
“Well,” she said brightly, “we better get going then.”
Agatha cleared her throat. “We’re all set. Nicky’s meds and devices are in those bags so be careful, his chair is by the door. I’ll carry him to the car.”
“Perfect,” Alice said. “Don’t worry we’ll drop the rest of the boxes in storage after.”
Agatha clapped her hands together, forcing brightness into her voice. “Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.”
The air outside the airport was cool and grey. The sun hadn’t broken through yet, stuck behind the kind of clouds that looked too heavy to hold their own weight. Agatha adjusted the strap of her carry-on with one hand and cupped the back of Nicky’s head with the other. He’s still drowsy, his face pressed against her shoulder, breathing light and shallow. His oxygen tank hummed softly beside them.
They had all crammed into Alice’s beat-up Volvo that morning, Jen driving because Alice always braked too hard. It felt like too small a car for such a big goodbye.
Agatha had met Jen in college. They hadn’t gotten along at first. Agatha thought Jen was too loud, too nosy, Jen thought Agatha was cold and arrogant. But somewhere between late-night study sessions and shared hangovers, they became inseparable. Jen was one of the few people who saw through Agatha’s walls and loved her fiercely anyway. Jen met Alice a few years after graduation, a quiet, grounded woman with a sharp sense of humor and a calming presence that balanced them both. Agatha was wary of her at first, but Alice never pushed, and over time, she became just as much a part of Agatha’s life as Jen was.
Agatha had lived with them once, during those first foggy weeks after Nicky’s diagnosis when the world was falling apart faster than she could patch it. They were the kind of friends who didn’t ask questions. They just showed up with clean sheets, hot soup, and a spare key.
They were married witches, which never bothered Agatha. Their house always smelled like fresh bread and garden herbs, with little charms tucked into corners like forgotten feathers. They never pushed it on her. Never brought up her mother. Just lit a candle at the table each night and asked how her day was.
They had become her family in all the ways her own mother never managed to be. Their love was gentle. Grounded. Safe.
Jen was crying now. Not loud, but the kind of crying that happens when you can’t blink the tears away fast enough, steady and unrelenting. Alice didn’t cry, but her jaw kept working as if she was trying to chew through the tension.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to go in with you? at least as far as check in?” Jen asked, already reaching for one of the suitcases.
Agatha shook her head. “No you guys have done enough, I can handle it from here.”
Something in her voice must’ve closed the door on further protest. Jen hesitated, glanced at Alice, then turned back to Agatha with watery eyes.
“If you need anything you call us okay?” her voice cracked. “We’ll be on the next flight out”
Similarly something in Jen's expression let Agatha know there’s no use arguing.
She gave a small nod. Her throat was tight, too tight for words. If she tried to say anything, it might just come out as a sob.
Alice pressed a giant tote bag into her hands. “Snacks, tissues, backup batteries. A little friend for Mr. Scratchy. And a couple of herbs too– just calming ones, you won’t even notice they’re there”
Agatha almost smiled. “Thanks.”
They leaned in and hugged her, carefully avoiding Nicky’s breathing tube. It was awkward but tight. The kind of hug that says, Don’t fall apart, but if you do, we’ll catch you.
When they finally stepped away, Agatha didn’t watch them walk back to the car. She couldn’t.
Instead, she adjusted Nicky again on her hip, backpack slung tight across her shoulders, the oxygen tank clanking lightly at her side. A porter approached her, polite and a little uncertain, wearing a high-vis vest and an airport badge.
“Ms. Harkness?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, swallowing hard.
“I’m here to assist with your son’s medical boarding. If you like, I can take the large bags and get you checked in right away. They’re expecting you at the gate.”
He reached for the suitcase Jen had left upright behind her. Another agent trailed behind with a narrow, low seated airport wheelchair, already fitted with a cushion and straps for children. It was an unwelcome reminder of how planned this all had to be. Of how sick Nicky really was.
Agatha gave a tight smile and nodded. “Thank you.”
She crouched and eased Nicky into the chair. He whimpered a little as he shifted, too tired to fully wake, but didn’t protest. His skin was pale. Almost bluish at the lips.
As the agent began wheeling their checked luggage away, Agatha followed, hands tightly gripping the handles of the wheelchair, tote bag slung over her shoulder. Her steps felt heavier than the bags.
She didn’t look back.
Inside the terminal everything moved too fast yet not fast enough. The check-in area was chaos. People cutting lines, kids crying, suitcases spinning away from carts.
Agatha followed the porter through the maze of people towards a designated medical assistance counter. Nicky’s wheelchair bumped gently over tile seams.
“Forms for the medical devices were submitted in advance,” the agent said, flipping through a clipboard. “We’ll confirm again with the flight crew, but there may still be limitations. I’m just the middleman, unfortunately.”
“Limitations?” Agatha asked sharply.
The porter hesitated, glancing at Nicky. “Sometimes storage space in the cabin runs tight, especially on these mid-sized jets. There’s a possibility some of the auxiliary equipment will need to be checked into cargo.”
“No” She said immediately. “You don’t understand, everything I need to keep him alive during this flight is in this bag” She says the last part in a sharp whisper, not wanting to scare Nicky.
“His nebuliser, feeding pump, seizure medication are all in here, if we hit turbulence or if something happens in the air and I don’t have that bag, he could-“ She refused to even fintech that thought.
The agent tried to smile, placating. “We’ll see what we can do.”
Agatha didn’t answer. She reached for Nicky’s hand instead, and hoped he couldn’t feel hers shaking.
After what felt like hours arguing with the airline, they finally relented and allowed her to bring all of her carry-on onto the plane.
They moved slowly through security. The airport buzzed and hissed around them, a pressure cooker of noise and unfamiliarity. Agatha hated it. She hated the noise, the unpredictability. But most of all, she hated the stares.
People didn’t even try to hide it. They looked at the nasal cannula, the oxygen tank strapped to the back of his wheelchair, the medical bag slung over her shoulder. They looked at her like she was dragging a ghost through the terminal instead of a six-year-old boy.
A man in his forties stopped mid step, brow furrowed. He leaned in to murmur something to the woman beside him.
Agatha met his eyes, sharp and unflinching.
“Take a picture,” she said, voice cold. “It’ll last longer.”
He blinked, startled, and turned away like a kicked dog.
But someone else wasn’t so easy to scare off.
She didn’t even see the woman at first, not until she turned from the gate agent and found her crouched in front of Nicky. Middle aged, salt and pepper braids, a shawl that smelled faintly of lavender and something acrid. Her wrists were stacked with beaded bracelets that jingled as she reached forward, hand hovering too close to Nicky’s face.
“Oh, sweet child,” the woman murmured. “You’re tangled up, aren’t you? I can feel it. Just a little–”
“Don’t,” Agatha said, sharply enough to cut glass. She was at Nicky’s side in an instant, stepping between them. “Don’t touch him.”
The woman blinked, startled but undeterred. “I only want to help. I’ve worked with energy like his before. I can–”
“No,” Agatha said, voice low and dangerous. “He doesn’t need your crystals or your power readings. He needs medicine and rest. Keep your hands off my son.”
The woman flinched, but not from shame. From something more like pity. “You’re afraid of what you don’t understand,” she said, almost sadly.
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “I understand plenty. And I don’t need strangers trying to perform roadside miracles on my child at Gate C12.”
The woman muttered something under her breath, maybe a curse, maybe a prayer but backed off.
Agatha felt the eyes now. Watching. Judging. She forced herself not to care.
She turned to Nicky, crouching beside him. Her hands were still trembling.
“You okay, bug?”
He nodded slowly, mouth drawn in a straight line. “Why do people always look at me like that?”
Agatha swallowed hard. She brushed a hand gently through his curls, grounding herself in the familiarity of it.
“Because you’re more interesting than they are,” she said, softly but firmly. “And people always stare at what they don’t understand.”
Nicky frowned. “That’s dumb.”
“Yeah,” she said, as she pressed a kiss to his head, breathing in the smell of his shampoo. “It is.”
She rose and pushed Nicky’s chair closer to her, turning her attention back to the fumbling gate agent.
“Now where was I?”
The plane hadn’t even left the ground yet, and Agatha’s palms were already damp. She wiped them against the thighs of her jeans and glanced at Nicky, who was tucked into the window seat beside her, wrapped in his favorite faded blue blanket. Mr. Scratchy, frayed at the ears, was cradled under one arm like a talisman.
“You okay, baby?” she asked quietly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin felt warm, but not hot. Not yet.
Nicky nodded, distracted by the runway lights outside. “Will we fly really high, higher than the big ferris wheel?”
“Yeah,” Agatha murmured, reaching under the seat in front of her for the carry-on. “Higher than the clouds even. You might get to see the tops of them.”
“Cool!” He squirmed excitedly in his chair. She gave him a fond smile before she went back to running through her checks.
She’d pre-loaded every device, pre-mixed the emergency formula, charged every backup battery. The carry-on bag at her feet was packed with the essentials she couldn’t risk losing. She’d even checked the pressure limits of the oxygen equipment against airline safety regulations three times last night.
And yet she couldn’t stop running through worst-case scenarios.
What if the plane had to make an emergency landing and they were stuck on a tarmac somewhere with no ground medical support? What if turbulence disrupted Nicky’s oxygen flow? What if–
The safety briefing was happening, but she barely heard it. She glanced across the aisle and saw a woman give her a curious look, eyes darting to Nicky’s nasal cannula, the oxygen tank nestled by her legs.
Agatha lifted her chin and offered a cool, closed smile. Just let me have this flight, she thought. Just let us get there.
The engines started to rev.
“Mama,” Nicky said, his voice small. “Will it hurt?”
Her breath caught. He had begun to associate pain with so many things in life and it broke her heart.
“No, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Just a little pressure when we go up. Like when you go up in an elevator really fast.”
Nicky nodded, reassured, but held onto her hand tightly. His fingers were small but so familiar, like a puzzle piece that had always fit perfectly in hers. His presence grounded her, even as her stomach threatened to twist into knots.
She glanced outside the window. The morning sky was beginning to stretch blue, cloudless, cruelly calm. It looked almost peaceful. A direct opposite of how she felt inside.
She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not here. Not in this suspended metal coffin, six hours from safety, from help, from Dr. Vidal, their last hope.
Agatha closed her eyes and mentally reviewed the backup plan again. If the oxygen battery failed, she had the portable tank. If Nicky started vomiting, she had the antiemetic. If he became lethargic, she had glucose tabs, electrolyte packs, and a copy of his entire medical file, printed and flagged, for whichever overwhelmed ER resident she might need to deal with.
Still, every minute in the air felt like holding her breath underwater.
When the plane finally lifted off the runway, Nicky’s hand squeezed hers tighter. She looked down. His face was pale but calm, focused on the clouds outside the window now glowing gold with dusk light.
“Do you think Dr. Vidal’s hospital has frogs in the garden?” he asked, unprompted.
Agatha blinked. “Frogs?”
“Yeah. Like the ones at the pond near our house. I miss them.”
She smiled, the kind that pulled at the softest part of her heart. “I don’t know, love. Maybe we’ll find some nearby.”
He turned toward her. “Will she be nice? Dr. Vidal?”
Agatha hesitated. “She’s supposed to be the best.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Agatha took a deep breath. “I hope so. I really hope so.”
Nicky leaned his head against her arm and yawned. “I dreamed about her once. She had nice eyes.”
Agatha froze. He said it so casually, like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t weird at all. She studied him closely, but his eyes had already drifted shut.
Nice eyes?
She didn’t remember describing Dr. Vidal in any detail. Or even showing him a picture of her. But maybe she had.
Maybe it was just a dream.
She kissed the top of his head and didn’t ask.
The cabin lights dimmed, and the hum of the engine settled into a rhythm that reminded her a bit too much of the beeping monitors back home.
She couldn’t sleep. Not when her entire world was tucked into the seat beside her, connected to life by a plastic tube and the strength of her preparation.
So she kept her hand in his, and tried to focus on the peaceful looking sky.
They landed just after sunset, the sky over San Diego soft with streaks of lavender and gold. Agatha had never been so relieved to feel solid ground beneath her feet. No oxygen failures, no vomiting, no cabin pressure issues, nothing she couldn’t handle. A few skipped heartbeats here and there on her end when Nicky had nodded off too fast or looked too pale, but no disasters. No ambulances waiting at the gate. That alone felt like a small miracle.
She held Nicky close as they exited the jet bridge, his head heavy on her shoulder, and allowed herself a single breath of shaky gratitude.
It didn’t last long.
At baggage claim, the conveyor belt groaned to life, spitting out suitcase after suitcase. Business greys, floral weekenders, neon backpacks with stuffed animals dangling from the zippers. But not the white medical bag.
Agatha’s pulse surged in her throat. She scanned the crowd, the carousel, the floor around it. Then she circled it again.
“It was tagged ‘medical,’” she said tightly to the airline employee behind the counter. “Big white suitcase. It was checked separately as cargo. It has to be here.”
The woman tapped at her tablet. “Sometimes bags are delayed on connecting flights—”
“There was no connecting flight,” Agatha snapped, stepping forward. “We were direct from Boston.”
“Right… yes, sorry. Then it may have been offloaded there by mistake.”
“How the fuck does that even happen?! I told the agent at check-in it was critical. That it’s life sustaining medical equipment.”
“I understand—”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice cracked despite her best efforts. “That bag had his feeding pump. Specialized formula. He needs it every few hours or his blood sugar tanks. The emergency kit, his IV line backups, even his antiemetics. We are already twelve hours in without them.”
“We can try to put in an emergency rush—”
Agatha gave a sharp, bitter laugh, more breath than sound. “Sure. And maybe next time I’ll ask him to schedule his metabolism around your cargo logistics.”
She heard it as soon as it happened. By now she’d grown attuned to every little sound Nicky makes, every subtle cue that something was not quite right.
Even something as little as a slight change in his breathing.
She turned sharply.
He looked pale. Paler than usual. His head lolled slightly, like it was too heavy for him to keep up on his own.
Beads of sweat glistened at his hairline. His arms twitched faintly.
“Nicky?” her voice dropped low and urgent. She crouched beside the wheelchair and reached to cup his face.
He swatted her hands away, shaking his head and groaning in protest. His eyes were cloudy, unfocused.
Her stomach dropped.
She yanked open the carry-on and pulled out the glucose tabs opening one with practiced ease. She had dealt with situations like this countless times.
“Come on baby” She tried to press it to his lips “Just a little bite for me, please.”
He began to thrash, legs kicking weakly, hands flailing. His whole body tense with a sudden, irrational fury. Irritability was usually one of the first signs, the hardest to prepare for, especially when he didn’t recognise her through the fog.
“I know,” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice calm. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
She gently, but firmly, restrained his arms and pressed the tab to his lips. It took a few tries. He whimpered, resisting, but then reflex kicked in. His mouth opened slightly. She eased the sugar past his teeth.
Her hands shook. She hated being rough with him. But this was survival.
Agatha turned back to the frozen airline staff. Her voice came out flat, steely.
“He needs a hospital,” she said, her voice flat and cutting now as he slowly began to relax . “Now. Right now. Call a paramedic or get me a cab, I don’t care, just do something .”
The cab lurched to a stop in front of the children’s hospital emergency bay, tires hissing against the damp pavement. Agatha was out of the backseat before the driver had even finished braking, flinging the door open with one hand while steadying Nicky with the other.
“Careful,” she whispered, cradling his head. “We’re here, baby. I’ve got you.”
He sagged against her shoulder, damp with sweat and far too quiet.
She wrestled the folded travel wheelchair out of the trunk with one hand, cursing under her breath as it clattered to the ground. Her fingers fumbled with the latch, muscles shaking from both strain and panic.
“Please,” she shouted toward the glass doors. “I need help!”
Finally, a nurse in blue scrubs spotted them through the glass and rushed outside, followed by a second with gloves already pulled on.
“He’s hypoglycemic, mitochondrial disorder,” she gasped. “He needs to be seen now.”
“Of course,” the nurse said, reaching for him. “Let us help—”
“I’ve got him,” she snapped, but her arms were trembling. Her knees felt like they were made of jelly.
“You’re doing great,” the nurse said calmly. “Let’s get him into the chair.”
Together, they eased Nicky into the seat. His head lolled, lashes fluttering. No words. Just a low moan.
Agatha kept her eyes on him the entire time as they pushed toward the ER doors. “I have everything. His meds, feeding schedule, labs. It’s all in the bag. I just need him stable.”
She couldn’t stop the tremble in her voice as they entered the sterile, fluorescent light.
“Please,” she said. “Please don’t let him crash again.
It moved fast after that.
They were transported to a room and they got to work right away. Gloved hands. A vitals monitor rolled in. The beeping began, too loud, too slow.
“BP is low. Let’s get a dextrose push going now—”
A doctor she didn’t know entered with a clipboard and a rushed expression. “Was he vomiting? Do we have an exact blood glucose level?”
“No emesis,” Agatha said, stripping off her coat. “I caught it early. Glucose tab about ten minutes ago. But he’s fragile. “He can’t fast more than six hours without a break in nutrition. This hospital uses a port, right? He needs it now, or the pump, whichever you can place faster.”
“We’ll stabilise him first then transfer him to a general pediatrics ward.”
“No,” she said sharply. “I didn’t come all this way for general intake. I already arranged for Dr. Rio Vidal to take over. My son is her patient now. I want him transferred to her immediately.”
The doctor glanced at the intake sheet, then nodded. “We’ll page her.”
Someone murmured something about stepping outside while they worked, but she didn’t budge. Not now. Not while he was still pale and quiet beneath the wires. She stayed anchored beside the bed, her palm resting gently on Nicky’s chest, just to feel it rise and fall.
He’d come back from worse.
But the image of him in the terminal, eyes blank and body flailing, kept playing on repeat behind her eyes.
This wasn’t how she’d wanted him to arrive. Not wheeled in half conscious, low on blood sugar, pale and quiet.
Not like this.
She leaned down and brushed a kiss against his temple. His skin was clammy but warm.
“You’re okay,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
Somewhere behind her, the intercom buzzed to life: “Paging Dr. Vidal to Emergency. Dr. Rio Vidal to Emergency.”