Chapter 5 - Dr. Ashford Attempts To Dismiss Sarah’s Early Observations
Later that afternoon, Dr. Trevor Ashford strode back into the nursery unannounced. He dropped a fresh stack of lab printouts onto the dresser with an arrogant, dismissive thud.
How are the patients, Miss Mitchell? Or should I ask if you've diagnosed them yet? Dr. Ashford sneered. I stood up from my chair, keeping my voice level and controlled despite my rising anger.
Their condition deteriorates every time they consume water from those bedside pitchers, Doctor. Dr. Ashford laughed, a sharp, condescending sound that echoed off the marble walls.
Hydration therapy is standard protocol for mitochondrial fatigue; naturally, they complain about routine fluids. Routine fluids don't taste like chemicals and leave a syrupy residue in the pitchers, I countered sharply.
Dr. Ashford stepped closer, his face flushing with professional outrage and wounded ego. Listen to me, you glorified babysitter, these boys suffer from a rare genetic metabolic disorder.
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And your three-million-dollar treatment plan has somehow made them worse for eight straight months? I asked quietly. Dr. Ashford pointed a shaking finger at my chest, his voice trembling with suppressed fury.
One more insubordinate word, and I'll have Nathan throw you out on the street tonight. Let him throw me out, I replied coldly, as long as he knows his sons are being poisoned.
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