Chapter 1: The Blood That Cost My Son His Life

My chest locked up. My wife, Gwen Dalton, had been on assignment for three months, and responses like that played out every single day.

When I got hit by falling debris, I pressed a hand to my bleeding head and texted her about it. She replied instantly, "Get some rest. Drink plenty of water."

When my coworkers cornered me in the parking garage and beat me up, I texted her for help. She replied, "Don't worry. It'll all pass."

Even the night our son, Andy Morrison, went into sudden shock, I knelt in front of the ICU with blood all over my hands, begging her to come home.

Her reply was still instant. "Trust the doctors. He'll be fine."

Now my phone buzzed again with another one of those familiar, cold responses.

I stared at the words on the screen and suddenly started laughing. I laughed until I tasted iron in my mouth.

Every message I sent her from outside the emergency room came back the same way, canned responses that might as well have been AI-generated. She always said she was too busy and couldn't get away.

From the day she left on that assignment, my world had been nothing but those icy auto-replies. They swallowed the bitterness, the fear, and the helplessness—all of it—without leaving a trace.

Andy was wheeled into surgery, and I drifted through the hallway like a ghost. My anxiety peaked, and I wanted to find the surgeon to ask what was happening, but my feet froze just outside the door.

A familiar voice came from inside, one I'd been desperate to hear for months but could never reach. It was my wife, Gwen.

"Gwen, is this really worth it?" The doctor's voice wavered. "He's still your own son. What if your husband finds out?"

My breathing stopped, and my whole body went rigid.

A faint sigh came from the other side. "He won't find out."

Gwen paused, exhaustion bleeding through her voice. "I didn't want it to come to this either. But Pierce broke his hand and lost too much blood. He has a rare blood type, and there isn't a single matching unit in the entire city. Andy's blood is the only option."

"But you're gambling with your child's life. What if something goes wrong during the sur—"

"I said he won't find out." Her voice turned cold, cutting the doctor off.

"Draw the blood now and get it to the other hospital. And on this end, keep my husband under control."

"Keep me under control?"

I shoved the door open. Both women inside froze, the color draining from their faces as they stared at me.

I closed the distance between us, my eyes locked on my wife's face and the panic written all over it. Gwen instinctively tried to hide the blood bag that had just been drawn.

The label clearly read, "Rh-null, Pediatrics, Emergency Transfer."

"What did you just say?" My voice shook so badly that I could barely get the words out. It felt like everything inside me was being ripped apart.

"Say it again. What do you mean Andy's blood is the only option? Did you set this whole thing up yourself?"

Gwen's lips trembled, and she reached for me. "Liam, listen to me. It's not what you think."

"That's our son!" I screamed, every ounce of longing I'd buried over the past months igniting alongside the fury tearing through me.

"He's four years old and lying on an operating table right now, and we don't even know if he'll make it. His own mother hasn't even come to see him. Instead, you've been going behind everyone's back to take his blood? All to save some coworker who went mountain climbing?"

"I didn't have any other choice." She looked cornered too, her eyes bloodshot.

"Pierce only went there because of me. I can't just watch him die."

"So you'll let Andy die instead?" I grabbed the medical chart off the table and hurled it at her. Pages scattered everywhere.

"You're with him, aren't you?"

Gwen looked away, silent as stone. In that moment, as I stared at her, she felt like a complete stranger. The last scrap of hope I had went cold right alongside that bag of blood.

Then the surgical light went dark, and a nurse came stumbling out. "Where's Andy Morrison's family? The patient is in hemorrhagic shock. He needs a transfusion now!"

I looked at the blood bag and lunged for it like a man possessed. Gwen shoved me to the ground, wrenched a belt around my wrists and ankles, and then tore off a strip of tape and pressed it hard over my mouth. I shook my head wildly, desperate whimpers forcing their way out of my throat.

She covered my eyes, her voice trembling. "The whole city is sourcing blood. Ten minutes, tops. Liam, Andy can hold on."

Her brow furrowed, a flicker of reluctance crossing her face. Then the internal line rang. She listened, let go of me, and rushed out.

"Pierce can't wait any longer."

I lay curled on the cold floor, listening to the staff screaming down the hall. "Where's the Morrison family?"

Yet all I could do was wrench my wrists back and forth until they bled raw, blood smearing at the corners of my mouth.

A few minutes later, the announcement came over the PA. "Operating Room 7, pediatric patient Andy Morrison. Resuscitation unsuccessful."

And then the world went silent.