The Poisoned Sandwich and the Pointed Finger

I stood frozen in horror as paramedics swarmed around Leo. His little face was still swollen, his breathing shallow but stabilizing. My hands trembled uncontrollably as they lifted him onto a stretcher.

"BP's still dropping," one paramedic called out. "We need to move now."

Time seemed to slow down. Just twenty minutes ago, Leo had been laughing about fractions. Now he was fighting for his life because of a sandwich—a sandwich I made.

"What's his medical history?" A paramedic asked.

Adrian's voice cut through the chaos. "Severe peanut allergy. He's had three previous reactions, none this severe. The Epi-pen was administered approximately four minutes after exposure."

His clinical tone contrasted sharply with the storm raging in his eyes. I'd never seen such fury.

"Father, I'm going with him," Camille said, her voice breaking.

Adrian nodded curtly. "I'll follow in the car."

As they rushed Leo out, I tried to approach Adrian. "I swear I didn't—"