* SLADE’S POINT OF VIEW * I have been so consumed by worry lately because even the best doctor, Rick, can’t seem to pin down what’s wrong with her. She won't eat, she barely moves; all she does is drift in a restless sleep or scan the room with hollow eyes, searching for me. “We have performed every diagnostic test available, and on paper, she’s perfectly healthy,” Rick said, his voice heavy with a frustration that mirrored my own. I was standing in the middle of his office, too agitated to even consider sitting down. “But she’s wasting away. She’s growing weaker every single day...” I said, my voice cracking. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a cold, iron vice; the helplessness was a dull, crushing ache that radiated through my chest, leaving me breathless. Rick stood up and leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. “We’re going to escalate — neurological, metabolic, everything again, but deeper this time,” he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Because
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