I remember the exact way Dr. Stevens stood after that.
Not dramatically. Not suddenly enough to scare her.
He simply rose, reached for the phone, and told me we needed to contact Poison Control and the police immediately.
That was how we arrived at the moment when lights began flashing beyond the clinic’s frosted glass and a car door slammed somewhere outside.
But less than half an hour earlier, I had been standing in my own kitchen chopping carrots for dinner.
The pan on the stove smelled like onion, celery, and garlic. A grocery list was still folded in my back pocket. Emma was home with me. My mother-in-law, Diane, had been staying with us while recovering from knee surgery.
It was an ordinary Tuesday evening until Emma tugged my sleeve.
