Sitting on the edge of the stool in the laboratory, Alan waited with hands clenched on the table as Dr. Willis bent over the microscope. I perched beside her on another stool, my tail twitching in quiet anticipation, for I too was drawn into the moment. I watched Dr. Willis with the same intensity that Alan did. He had carefully swabbed the last traces of poison from the vial, then delicately collected samples from the children's mouths, seeking the remnants of the same toxic substance. I also wanted to uncover the mystery of the vial and find out what had killed Joe and Anne and put Sam in the infirmary, teetering on the brink between life and death.

Dr. Willis finally straightened, looking up from the eyepiece, his expression grim. He picked up the vial with deliberate care, turning it slowly in his fingers. 

“Whatever that was in this vial,” he began, “is both simple and mysterious. There are two distinct components, but only one I can identify with any certainty.”  

He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line as he sifted through the vast, intricate tapestry of his knowledge on toxins. “The one I recognize," he continued, “is tetrodotoxin.”

Alan's head jerked up, her voice echoing my own inquisitive meow as she repeated the word, “Tetrodotoxin.” 

Dr. Willis nodded. "It's a neurotoxin, one typically found in pufferfish. Even a single drop is lethal, and just a trace can induce paralysis.”

“If it’s lethal, how did Sam survive?”

“My guess is that Sarah didn’t mix the poison evenly in the children’s drinks. Sam must have ended up with the one that had barely a trace of it. He’s a lucky boy.”

He peered through the microscope again. “But here… here, it’s something different,” he said. “It’s been blended with an extremely rare element, something I’ve only encountered once before yet I'm still baffled by it."

“Any wild guesses as to what that element could be, Doctor?”

“I have a theory,” the doctor said, glancing up from the microscope, “if you’re inclined to hear it.”

“I’m all ears.”

Dr. Willis leaned in. “Several years ago, Louis returned from one of his scavenger hunts with a decanter he had discovered in a chamber deep within a sea cave. The chamber had an air pocket that had preserved the decanter, along with other pottery and silverware, all perfectly intact. The decanter was a rare find, no larger than the span of my arm, and inside, sealed by a glass stopper, was a slimy substance—thick, viscous, and oddly fragrant. It smelled sweet, almost refreshing, like something you’d expect from a long-lost Eden. I took a sample and examined it under the microscope. To my surprise, it was a form of mold—my guess is a type of slime mold.”

“And how does this slime mold figure into what we’re dealing with here? What makes it so significant?”

Scratching his chin in contemplation, the doctor replied, “I don’t claim to be a mycologist, but I can share what little I know. Slime molds thrive on the forest floor, where they feed on decomposing leaves, rotting logs, gnarled tree bark, and the damp, dark soil. They flourish by consuming what nature has discarded.”

“Trees, leaves, and soil,” Alan murmured.

“That’s correct,” Dr. Willis reaffirmed. “These molds grow on organic matter that has long vanished from our world—things that have been extinct since the Great Wrath, which flooded our earth more than forty years ago.”

“But, apparently, they still do exist somewhere, if this slime you speak of exists. So, is that the other substance we found in the vial?”

Dr. Willis confirmed with a nod. 

“But why mix the slime with the neurotoxin?” Alan pressed. 

“My guess would be to mask the poison’s natural bitterness. Surprisingly, the slime is edible.”

“Do you still happen to have the decanter?”

“I think it would be in the kitchens. Gunther is probably using it to keep his drink.” 

“What did you do with the slime that was in the decanter?”

“Louis—being Louis—drank it. And I did, too. Looking back, it was quite foolish of me to consume something of such mysterious origins.”

“How was it?”

“Deliciously sweet,” Dr. Willis admitted with a rueful smile.

Our conversation was abruptly interrupted by a sickly groan coming from the adjoining room—the infirmary where young Sam lay ensnared in uneasy sleep. He was beginning to rouse. Earlier, when the captain had brought him in, his eyes had fluttered open for just a few seconds, only to slip shut again. 

Alan and Dr. Willis exchanged a glance before they hastened toward the room, and I, caught in the swell of their haste, leapt from my stool and raced behind them. Dr. Willis took his place beside Sam, his practiced hands already at work, checking the pulse of life in the pallid boy. 

Alan remained by the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, observing the scene with careful scrutiny. I hurled myself toward the foot of the bed, my breath catching in my throat as the boy feverishly tossed from side to side, his body gripped by some unseen torment. His face glistened with a cold sheen of sweat, and his gaze was clouded and distant, as though still tethered to the nightmare that had held him captive.

“Momma!” he cried out, his voice trembling with desperation. “I want to see Momma.”

Dr. Willis’s expression softened as they met the boy’s pleading eyes, but he held back the harsh truth, unwilling to let those words fall upon such tender ears. Instead, he offered a gentle reassurance. “Your mother isn't here, but you’re not alone, son. Officer Alan and I are here, a nurse will also be nearby to check on you now and then, and you’ve got Page for company.”

I hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, my tail swaying gently from side to side. With a soft purr, I nuzzled my head against his small, trembling hand, hoping that in this simple gesture, he might find some comfort in the warmth of companionship.

“Why am I here?” Sam asked, confused. “I don’t remember coming here. I was in my bedroom…”

“You fell ill,” Alan began gently. “The captain carried you to the infirmary when your mother couldn’t.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he tried to piece together the fragments of his memory. “Will she come visit later? Joe and Anne, too?” His voice wavered with a fragile hope.

Dr. Willis drew a sharp breath as he turned away from Sam. I could see the reluctance etched in the lines of his face, the unspoken burden of truth pressing down upon him. It was a strange thing. This human hesitation. This reluctance to lay bare the reality before those who most needed to see it. I could never quite grasp why they believed it kinder to cloak the truth in silence, to shield it behind veils of false hope. 

The truth, after all, is a double-edged blade—it cuts deep, yes, slicing into the very marrow of the soul. But it is a blade that must be wielded, for in its sharpness lies a certain cruel mercy. 

“You should rest more,” the doctor finally murmured, breaking the silence that had settled in the room like a shroud.

“But—” Sam started, attempting to rise from the bed, only to freeze, his face draining of color. “Wait… I—I…”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“I can’t move my legs! I can’t feel them!”

“Stay calm, son.”

“Stay calm? How can I stay calm when something’s wrong with my legs?” Sam’s voice trembled, edging toward hysteria, the terror on his face deepening.

“You were poisoned,” Alan cut in, her words sharp and unguarded. “Paralysis is one of the poison’s effects, but it’s the least damaging one.”

Sam turned to the doctor, silently demanding the truth. The doctor hesitated. After a tense pause, he nodded, confirming Alan’s grim statement.

“How did it happen? Did I do something wrong?” Sam asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Will I walk again?” His hand shakily reached down, searching for some reassurance in the feel of his legs. 

“It'll take time and patience,” Dr. Willis replied, his tone reassuring. “But I believe you'll walk again.”

A flicker of relief washed over the young boy’s face. 

Alan stepped forward and drew a chair beside Sam's bedside. With a steady hand, she lowered herself into the seat, her face a mask of stoic resolve, though there was a flicker of tenderness. It was a tenderness born of empathy, a quiet ache for the boy whose world had been so suddenly upended.