Daniel crossed his arms, watching me. If I intervened with force, they’d call the police and claim I was attacking a doctor treating a violent dementia patient.

Thorne stepped toward my mother, tapping the needle. She shrank back against the sofa, whimpering.

I had seconds. I couldn’t fight. I had to act.

I moved toward them, aiming for the coffee table. “Doctor, wait, is that—”

I deliberately caught the toe of my shoe on the edge of the heavy Persian rug. With a dramatic gasp, I pitched forward, flailing my arms, and my hands collided squarely with Thorne’s forearms.

The syringe flew from his grip. It hit the stone hearth and shattered, the cloudy liquid pooling on the bricks.