“Caleb,” I whispered, “can you walk?”

He tried, his knees shaky.

“I feel… strange,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice calm, like I was putting on a mask.

“We’re going to the bathroom. We’ll lock it. If you start getting sleepy, look at me. Okay?”

We made it to the bathroom and locked the door.

I turned on the faucet and gave him small sips of water. I remembered a first-aid lesson: don’t try to fight poison alone—get help and buy time.

The dispatcher asked what we had eaten, when the symptoms started, if Caleb had allergies.

I answered through the waves of nausea.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

CHECK THE TRASH.

PROOF. HE’S COMING BACK.

My stomach dropped.

Could it be the same woman? A neighbor? Someone who knew us?

I opened the bathroom cabinet, found a small bottle of activated charcoal from an old stomach bug kit.

I hesitated—then didn’t. I wasn’t willing to gamble Caleb’s life.

Sirens were faint, getting louder.

Then I heard it—downstairs.

The front door handle turning.

Ethan was back.

And he wasn’t alone.

Two pairs of footsteps crossed the living room.

The dispatcher’s voice cut through the panic.

“Ma’am, officers are arriving. Do not come out unless it’s safe.”

I pressed my hand over Caleb’s mouth—not to silence him, but to remind him: stay calm.

Be still.