Chapter 2

For three days, I heard nothing. Chloe was in the city for a series of influencer events with Julian. She didn't answer my calls. The camp' s number went straight to a generic, pre-recorded voicemail.

"All campers are safe and engaged in our proprietary development program. We maintain a no-contact policy for the initial adjustment period to foster independence."

Independence. For a seven-year-old. The words made me sick.

I couldn' t eat. I couldn' t sleep. I just paced the floors of our quiet house in Queens, Leo' s toys a constant, painful reminder. On the fourth day, I couldn' t take it anymore. I threw a bag in my truck and started driving. Queens to Utah. Twenty-two hundred miles.

I drove through the night, fueled by black coffee and a growing dread that coiled in my gut. I kept my phone on the passenger seat, hoping, praying for a call. Nothing.

When I finally crossed the state line into Utah, the landscape changed. It was vast, empty, and hostile. Just like the feeling in my chest. I found the address for the "camp." It wasn't a camp. It was a dusty, isolated compound surrounded by a high fence. It looked like a prison.

I parked and ran to the main office. The man at the desk was large, with a flat, emotionless face.

"I' m here to see my son, Leo King," I said, my voice ragged from the drive.

He stared at me. "There' s a no-contact policy."

"I don' t care about your policy. Where is he?"

He sighed, annoyed. He tapped a few keys on his computer. His eyes scanned the screen, and for a second, his expression flickered. It was just a twitch, but I saw it.

"There was an incident," he said, his voice monotone. "He was non-compliant during a reflection exercise."

"What does that mean? Where is he?" I slammed my hand on the desk.

"He required medical attention. He was airlifted."

The world tilted. "Airlifted where? Is he okay?"

The man shrugged, a gesture of complete indifference. "St. Mark' s Hospital. Salt Lake City."

I didn' t say another word. I turned and ran back to my truck, my heart hammering against my ribs. St. Mark' s was two hours away. Two hours of not knowing. Two hours of imagining the worst.

I got to the hospital and ran to the emergency room. A nurse with kind eyes saw the panic on my face and led me down a sterile white hallway to the pediatric ICU.

And there he was.

My son. My bright, sensitive Leo. He was so small in that giant hospital bed, dwarfed by the machines and tubes. A ventilator was breathing for him. His skin was pale, his lips were cracked and blue. He was in a coma.

"Severe dehydration and hypothermia," the doctor told me, his voice gentle but firm. "His core temperature was dangerously low. We' re doing everything we can, but there may be neurological damage."

I fell into the chair next to his bed. The sound of the machines was the only thing in the room. I reached out and took his small, cold hand. The drive, the fear, the exhaustion-it all crashed down on me. My son was here, broken, because of a piece of metal. Because of her.