The sound didn’t snap or crack. It landed heavy, wet, wrong—a thud that still haunts me at night. A sharp wheeze followed, like air leaking from a broken balloon.
I was in the kitchen, slicing Thanksgiving pie. Tara laughed in the living room. Mom hummed over the sink. Dad dozed in his recliner, football blaring. Everything looked perfect: warm lights, full plates, family together.
Then it all stopped.
I dropped the knife. Ran.
Liam was curled on the living room rug, folded tight, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. His tiny hands clawed at his chest. His skin was gray. Not crying. That terrified me more than anything.
Standing over him: Brandon. Sixteen, six feet tall, varsity linebacker, smirking like it was nothing.
“I pushed him,” he said flatly. “He needs to toughen up.”
My hands were on Liam instantly. “Breathe, baby. I’m here.”
But he couldn’t. A faint, whistling rasp escaped.
“What happened?” I shouted.
“He was annoying,” Brandon shrugged.
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