I worked as a resident caregiver at the massive Bellevue Crest estate because I desperately needed a steady paycheck and a place to keep my infant son Theodore with me. My patient was Raymond Winslow, a wealthy transport fleet owner who was forty six years old and had been completely bedridden for two months. Doctors had announced he only had a few days left to live, and his arrogant nephew Christopher was already discussing funeral arrangements.

One night, exhausted from trying to calm my teething baby, I sat beside Raymond and gently laid Theodore on his chest to rest my aching arms. Almost instantly, Raymond moved his fingers to touch the soft fabric of the baby blanket. His heavy eyelids fluttered open, revealing that he was completely conscious and aware of his surroundings. We spent the remainder of the night communicating through simple eye movements. Through carefully timed blinks, Raymond revealed to me that his nephew was not simply waiting for the inheritance but was actively working to speed up his decline.

The following afternoon at four, Doctor Samuel Wallace arrived and administered an unmarked clear liquid directly into my patient. Within minutes, Raymond lost all ability to move his fingers, and the physician casually noted that he would be gone in five days at the most. After putting my baby to sleep, I researched the medication name I had memorized from the medical supply box.