Carrie’s voice cracked. “Then what is?” “That’s what we’re going to find out,” the doctor said. “But whatever it is, it’s been happening over time.” Mike looked at his daughter again. Her chest rose and fell, shallow but steady. He tried to think backward—days, weeks, patterns.
Nothing made sense. “And the grandmother?” Mike asked quietly. The doctor met his eyes. “I’m not assigning blame,” he said. “But I will need samples from the garden. Soil. Plants. Anything your daughter may have touched.”