On a windowsill inside the emergency room, next to the incubator, sat a decorative flower arrangement wrapped in lavender silk. A pale plant with glossy leaves and white bell-shaped blossoms drooped over the ribbon. It looked innocent in the way a predator looks asleep. Jermaine knew that plant.
He knew it because his grandmother, Miss Inez Claremont, had spent her life tending community gardens in Atlanta. She taught children to read nature like scripture. She taught which plants could heal burns, which could calm nerves, and which ones you should never touch without gloves and prayer. She called that white flower Ghost Lily, a backyard nickname, and she spoke about it in a stern voice.
“Digitalis,” she would say. “Pretty enough to marry the wind. Deadly enough to steal a heartbeat. You see it, you walk away. You smell it, you warn others.”
Jermaine saw the same oily sheen clinging to the leaves now. He saw the gardener earlier, Mr. Briggs, a thick-armed man who laughed too loudly, watering the plant and then wiping his hands on a towel before touching the incubator rails. He remembered Briggs saying the plant had been a gift delivered from an anonymous sender.
Jermaine swallowed, his throat dry.
Inside the room, Dr. Rook muttered, “We are out of time. I do not understand. He should be responding to treatment.”
Gregory Sutcliffe paced behind the doctors. His suit looked perfect, but his face was collapsing. His wife, Vivian Sutcliffe, held a silk handkerchief to her mouth, her knees trembling.
“Someone do something,” Vivian whispered. “Please.”
Jermaine’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He knew something the experts did not know. Ghost Lily could poison by touch and by proximity. Its residues could cling to metal and fabric. A baby’s lungs were too small to fight it.
He had two choices. Stay silent and safe. Or speak and risk everything. He remembered the sign by the front foyer last month: Staff must remain out of guest view between 9 AM and 9 PM.
Behind those words lurked a command. Do not exist. Jermaine inhaled. The world smelled like disinfectant and fear. He ran. He burst through the double doors before he could lose his nerve. Voices exploded around him.
“Get that boy out of here,” a nurse shouted.
Gregory glared. “Who let him in? This area is restricted.”
Dr. Rook snapped, “Security.”
Two guards approached. Jermaine held up both hands, fingers shaking.