My baby went BLUE on the kitchen floor at Pop's birthday party. My brother SPRAYED something up her nose. She GASPED and screamed. The whole family CLAPPED for him. And while everybody hugged him and Ma cried into his firefighter T-shirt, I knelt on the floor picking up the little blue pill she spit out.

I stared at the glowing phone screen, watching the thumbs-up and heart emojis cascade down the firehouse group chat. The contrast between the digital praise and the broken man weeping at our mother's kitchen table made me feel physically sick.

"Get up, Ryan," I whispered, my hand closing tight around the plastic baggie corner. "Get off the floor."

He didn't move right away. His shoulders heaved under his flannel shirt. When he finally looked up, his eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark, bruised shadows I had somehow managed to ignore for months. I had wanted so badly to believe in his recovery from surgery that I had been blind to the classic signs—the sudden weight loss, the erratic mood swings, the constant borrowing of cash.

"Erin, please," he rasped, reaching out a trembling hand toward me. "You have to believe me. I didn't know it fell out. I would die before I ever let anything happen to Riley. You know that. You know how much I love that little girl."

"You brought fentanyl into Ma's house, Ryan!" I hissed, keeping my voice low so the neighbors wouldn't hear through the open windows. "She's two years old! She put it in her mouth because she thought it was candy! If you had been in the bathroom—if you had been out getting ice—she would be dead right now!"

"I know!" he choked out, slamming his hand against his knees. "Do you think I don't know that? Every time I close my eyes, I see her face turning that gray-blue color. I see her eyes rolling back. I'm living in hell, Erin!"

"No, you're not in hell yet," I said cold-bloodedly, wiping a rogue tear from my cheek. "Hell is what happens when Detective Miller finishes her investigation. She's tracing where that pill came from. She knows it was a counterfeit press."

Ryan went completely pale. The reality of his situation was finally crashing down through the fog of his addiction. In Massachusetts, an accidental pediatric overdose involving a Class A controlled substance meant mandatory child endangerment charges, loss of his firefighter license, and significant prison time.

"Does... does anyone else know?" he stammered.

"Danny knows," I said.

Ryan blinked, startled. "Danny?"

"I accused him first," I said, the guilt heavy in my chest. "I went to his apartment on Monday and cornered him. He proved he's been clean for three years. He was the one who told me to look for who else at the party carried Narcan in their pocket."

Ryan put his head back in his hands. "Jesus Christ."

"Ma thinks you're a miracle worker," I continued, pointing toward the living room where photos of Ryan in his dress uniform adorned the mantel. "Pop thinks you deserve a medal from the mayor. The whole city thinks you're a hero, Ryan. And the whole time, the poison came from your coat."

The back door latch clicked. We both froze.

I shoved the plastic corner into my jeans pocket just as Ma walked into the kitchen, carrying two heavy canvas grocery bags from the Market Basket. Her face lit up the moment she saw Ryan sitting at the table.

"Oh, look at my two favorite kids!" Ma said, setting the bags down with a heavy thud on the counter. "Ryan, sweetie, you look exhausted. Are you eating enough? I was just telling Mrs. Higgins at the checkout how you saved our little angel. She said they ought to put your picture in the Lowell Sun."

I looked at Ryan. He couldn't meet Ma's eyes. He stared fixedly at the linoleum floor.

"Ma," I said, my voice tight and strained. "Ryan was just leaving."

"Leaving? Nonsense!" Ma bustled around the kitchen, pulling out a loaf of bread and a tub of margarine. "He needs a hot meal. Look at him, Erin, he's skin and bones since that awful surgery. You sit right there, Ryan. I'm making you a roast beef sandwich."

"I can't, Ma," Ryan managed to say, his voice thick and choked. He stood up so fast he nearly knocked his chair over. "I... I got a call from the captain. I gotta go down to the station."

"Oh, duty calls," Ma sighed proudly, leaning up to kiss his pale cheek. "My brave boy. You make sure you take care of yourself, you hear? We need you whole for Sunday dinner. Riley keeps asking for her Uncle Ryan."

Ryan winced as if she had struck him with a whip. He grabbed his navy jacket off the low hook—the hook he would never hang a coat on again—and hurried out the back door without looking back at either of us.

Ma turned to me, wiping down the counter with a damp sponge. "He's so modest," she said softly, her eyes shining with tears of gratitude. "Some men would let a thing like that go to their heads, but not your brother. He just carries the weight silently."