Celeste looked back at Elias.
His lips had lost color. One trembling hand lay open on the sheets.
“I understand what happens when a patient stops breathing,” she said.
She returned to the bed and pulled the dinner tray farther from him. The amber vial rolled once, struck the metal rim, and settled beside a piece of bread.
Pale crystalline dust clung around the base of the cap.
Celeste bent closer without touching it.
Some of the same residue glittered against the dark ceramic soup bowl. Not enough to notice unless someone was looking for it.
She reached for the small magnifying glass she kept beside the bedside lamp. Elias had mocked it when she first brought it into the room. She used it to read lot numbers on medications after fatigue made small print blur.
Now the dust appeared in irregular grains. A few had dissolved where the spilled water touched the tray.