“Dr. Collins is at a conference out of state,” Harrison replied dismissively. “I’ve reviewed her charts and am perfectly capable of managing this. Now, I have other patients. A nurse will be in shortly to take her for the scan.”
As Harrison left, Mike noticed Bo’s attention shift from Zoe to the retreating doctor. The dog’s posture changed—a subtle tensing Mike recognized from K-9 training. It wasn’t aggression, but a heightened, suspicious alertness.
The following hours were a blur of tests and hushed conversations in the hallway. The rhythmic beep of the monitors was the only sound. Bo remained a silent guardian, allowed to stay only because of his K-9 status and a sympathetic head nurse who brought him water.
Shortly after midnight, Mike drifted into a restless sleep in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, only to be jolted awake by a low, persistent whine from Bo. The dog was on his feet, his focus locked on Zoe’s face. Mike checked the monitors—no change—then looked at his daughter. Her color looked off—a faint, terrifying gray tint beneath the pallor.
“Nurse!” Mike shouted, hitting the call button. “Something’s wrong! Please, check her!”
The night nurse arrived, checked Zoe’s vitals, and immediately called for a code. Within minutes, the room was full of people. Mike was pushed against the wall, holding Bo’s collar tight as the team worked.
The alarms on the monitors began to scream as Zoe’s oxygen levels plummeted.
“Respiratory arrest!” someone shouted, starting the resuscitation protocol.
Mike watched in horror as they intubated his daughter, sliding a tube down her throat and connecting her to a ventilator that began to breathe for her with a rhythmic, mechanical hiss.
A resident performed a quick neurological check, shining a light into Zoe’s unresponsive eyes.
“Page Dr. Harrison,” he told the nurse. “He’s the lead on this case and wanted to be notified of any changes.”
Twenty agonizing minutes later, Harrison arrived. He looked perfectly composed despite the hour. He glanced at the new labs, spoke quietly with the resident, then approached Mike.
“Mr. Miller, your daughter’s condition has deteriorated catastrophically,” Harrison said without preamble. “The EEG shows minimal brain activity, and she is now entirely dependent on life support. These results, combined with her lack of response to stimuli, indicate irreversible neurological failure.”
“What exactly are you saying?” Mike asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“I’m saying the prolonged seizure caused fatal brain damage,” Harrison said with a chilling detachment. “We will continue supportive care for now, but you need to start preparing yourself for a decision regarding life support.”
“Wait,” Mike said, desperation rising. “There has to be something else. Other specialists? Experimental treatments?”
Harrison pointedly checked his watch. “Mr. Miller, I understand this is difficult. We are providing the standard protocol. A transfer would be useless and dangerous. The most humane thing now is to focus on comfort and stop putting the child through more trauma.”
Mike stared at him, unable to process the suggestion to just give up and wait for Zoe to die.
“She’s six years old,” he said numbly. “Six. You can’t just tell me to walk away.”
“I’m not telling you to walk away,” Harrison snapped, his irritation showing. “I’m giving you a professional assessment based on thirty years of experience. Medicine has its limits.”
Throughout the conversation, Bo had become increasingly agitated. He paced between Zoe’s bed and the door, whining in that specific way Mike knew meant a seizure alert. Watching the dog, Mike felt a sudden surge of resolve cut through his shock.
“I want a second opinion,” he stated firmly. “And I want her transferred to the Charlotte Medical Center to see Dr. Vance.”
Harrison’s face hardened…
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