“That is an unreasonable request. Charlotte is four hours away; your daughter is unstable. Furthermore, your insurance won’t cover it, and the ethics committee won’t approve the resources for a hopeless case.”
“I don’t care about the insurance,” Mike snapped. “We’ll find the money. Zoe deserves every chance.”
“You don’t know my daughter,” Mike continued, trying to keep his voice steady. “She’s beaten every obstacle since the accident. She deserves more than being written off after one night.”
Harrison checked his watch again, no longer hiding his impatience. “I’ll order another EEG for the morning. But I don’t expect the results to change. Try to get some rest.”
After the doctor left, Mike collapsed into the chair. Bo came over and rested his heavy head on Mike’s knee. The dog’s eyes held such depth of understanding that Mike finally let himself cry, clutching his daughter’s limp hand.
By morning, Zoe’s condition was unchanged. The second EEG confirmed Harrison’s assessment: minimal activity. Around noon, Officer Miller stopped by with a change of clothes for Mike and food for Bo.
“The whole department is praying for her,” the officer said quietly. “The Chief wants to know if you need anything. Transport, a fundraiser, whatever it takes.”
Mike told him about Harrison’s refusal. Officer Miller’s face changed at the mention of the doctor’s name.
“Harrison…” he mused. “Tall, gray hair, looks down his nose at everyone? I thought so.”
He lowered his voice. “There’s a history there. Five years ago, your brother Jim had a run-in with Harrison. The doctor refused to treat a kid in the ER, and the boy ended up with a permanent disability. Jim took it out on Harrison in the parking lot. Jim got a suspended sentence, but a lot of guys on the force thought he did the right thing.”
Before Mike could respond, the door opened, and a young neurologist entered. She introduced herself as Dr. Sarah Collins’ associate, Dr. Amy Chen. She explained that the hospital administration had asked her to consult as an independent expert. Dr. Chen examined Zoe thoroughly, checking pupil reactions and subtle reflexes that Harrison seemed to have ignored. Bo remained surprisingly calm around her.
“Mr. Miller,” she said finally, “I’d like to run some additional tests with provocative stimuli. Dr. Harrison’s assessment focuses on cortical activity, but there are deeper brain functions we need to verify.”
For the first time in twenty-four hours, Mike felt a spark of hope.
“Dr. Harrison is convinced it’s useless.”
“As a consulting physician, I have the right to order diagnostics,” Chen replied firmly.
By evening, she returned with a tablet. “The results are interesting. There’s a preservation of some autonomic functions. This could be a deep post-ictal state, not brain death. There’s a chance, however small.”
Hope flared, but then Harrison burst into the room, visibly angry. “I wasn’t informed of these tests!” he barked. “Dr. Chen is giving you false hope based on statistical noise. I’ve already discussed this with the ethics board. We are recommending the withdrawal of support.”
The doctors’ argument was cut short by the piercing scream of the monitors. Zoe’s heart rate had spiraled into a chaotic rhythm.
“V-fib!” Chen shouted, reaching for the crash cart.
The next forty-five minutes were hell. Mike was pushed back as the team fought for his daughter’s life. When they finally stepped back, Harrison looked at the clock.
“Time of death: 7:42 PM. I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”
Dr. Chen, wiping away a tear, confirmed the lack of response. Bo, who had been silent, let out a low, vibrating moan—not a howl, but something deeper. It broke Mike.
“We can disconnect the equipment so you can say goodbye,” the nurse offered softly.
Mike nodded, watching as his daughter became a body under a sheet. It was over.
Three days later, the people of Asheville gathered at Pine Ridge Cemetery to lay Zoe Miller to rest. The March morning was overcast but dry. The cemetery sat on a gentle slope with a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Mike stood by the small white casket, barely aware of his surroundings. The last 72 hours had been a fog: paperwork, choosing a plot next to Eleanor, buying a tiny dress. The minister, Pastor John, stepped up to the podium.
“Friends, family,” he began, his voice carrying over the crowd of two hundred. “We are here to share the unbearable weight of this loss…”
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