Liam's POVMy 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
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