Dr. Miller looked up as I entered, relief washing over his face. “His condition is critical. Standard protocols aren’t working.”
I nodded and moved to Oliver’s bedside. His small body looked so fragile, connected to machines that beeped urgently around
him.
“Everyone step back,” I instructed. “I need space to work.”
As Head Healer, I possessed powerful healing abilities that I rarely used to their full extent. But for Oliver, I would channel
everything I had.
I placed my hands on his chest and closed my eyes. Calling to my wolf, I whispered, “Ava, I need your strength.”
A warm golden light emanated from my palms, seeping into Oliver’s damaged tissues. I could feel his airways beginning to respond, the inflammation slowly subsiding. But it wasn’t enough.
“More,” I urged Ava.
The golden glow intensified, spreading through Oliver’s entire body. I directed it first to his lungs, healing the swollen passages that prevented him from breathing. Then to his heart, steadying its erratic rhythm.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I poured everything I had into healing. The room faded away until there was only Oliver and me,
connected by golden threads of magic.
“His vitals are improving,” someone said, but their voice sounded distant.
My legs trembled with exhaustion, but I refused to stop. Oliver needed me – not as a mother, but as a healer. I would not fail in
this duty.
“BP normalizing,” a nurse announced. “Oxygen saturation improving.”
I continued until I was certain the danger had passed. Only then did I withdraw my hands, nearly collapsing from the effort. Sarah quickly brought a chair, and I sank into it, depleted.
“That was remarkable,” Dr. Miller said quietly. “I’ve never seen healing magic that powerful.”
“He needs continuous monitoring,” I said, ignoring the compliment. “The allergen is still in his system.‘
1/3
Emergency assistance in treatment centers
For the next two hours, I stayed by Oliver’s side, monitoring his recovery and making adjustments to his treatment. The medical staff moved efficiently around us, following my instructions precisely.
Every few minutes, I checked the readings on his monitors. I adjusted his IV drip, administered additional medications, and
monitored his breathing patterns.
“He’s responding well,” Dr. Miller noted after the first hour.
I nodded but remained vigilant. Oliver’s unique condition made him unpredictable. What looked like recovery could quickly spiral
back into crisis.
At the two–hour mark, his vital signs had finally stabilized to acceptable levels. The danger had passed, though he would need
close observation for the next 24 hours.
Sarah brought me a cup of herbal tea. “You should rest, Dr. Winters. You’ve used a tremendous amount of energy.
I accepted the tea with a nod of thanks but didn’t drink it. My attention remained fixed on Oliver’s monitors.
Eventually, Oliver’s eyelids began to flutter. He was regaining consciousness.
His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. Then his gaze found me, and surprise flooded his face.
“M–mommy?” he whispered, his voice raspy.
In that moment, my heart clenched and I was a little shaken. I thought back to when he was a newborn, when he was still fragrant and soft and tiny, when he almost died in his first attack, how sad I was then, how afraid I was that I would lose him.
Just like this one, that time I put my best foot forward to save him with my healing powers, and my wolf went to sleep for three
months as a result.
But soon, I remembered something else.Something in my heart hardened. I remembered all the times he’d turned away from me, all the cruel words he’d spoken, how he’d used my money to buy gifts for Rachel.
Oliver reached out his small hand toward me, seeking comfort and reassurance. The gesture was so familiar – how many times
had I held that hand when he was scared or hurt?
But I didn’t reach for him. Instead, I maintained my professional demeanor, checking the monitors and making notes on his
chart.
“Your vitals are stabilizing,” I said clinically. “The worst is over.”
I turned to Sarah instead. “Monitor his condition closely. If there are any changes, page me immediately.”
“Yes, Dr. Winters,” Sarah replied, giving me a concerned look.
I gathered my things, preparing to leave. Oliver’s breathing quickened with panic.
“Mom?” His voice was small, frightened. “Are you leaving? Don’t you want me anymore?”
2/3
I paused, then turned to face him. My expression remained neutral, my tone light but distant.
“You are mistaken,” I said coolly. “I am not your mom. Your mom Rachel is waiting outside the therapy room. I will call her in if
you need her.”
Oliver froze, his eyes widening with shock. I had never spoken to him this way before – cold, detached, as if he were just another
patient.
“But…” his voice trembled. “But you’re my mommy.”
“That’s not what you said before,” I reminded him. “You made it very clear at school, at your birthday party, and many other
times that Rachel is your real mom. I’m just the doctor who treated you.” 2
Tears welled in Oliver’s eyes. “I don’t want Rachel as my mom anymore.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “And why is that? You seemed quite determined before.”
Oliver clutched his blanket, his small fingers twisting the fabric nervously.
“She wouldn’t let me go to training classes,” he said, his voice small. “She made us live in the ghetto shelter.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “And she tried to kill me.”
I frowned, genuinely surprised by this accusation. “How could she have tried to kill you?”
“The ice cream,” Oliver explained, his lower lip quivering. “I used to be fine with cream cakes when you gave me the special
medicine. But this time, when I ate the one Rachel gave me, I almost died.”
He looked up at me with absolute conviction. “She must have poisoned it to try and kill
me.”
P
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