My phone rang while I was heading home. It was my six-year-old daughter, sobbing, saying she was in pain everywhere and terrified. I asked where her dad was. She said he was there—suffering too, helpless. I drove faster than I ever had, my heart pounding with fear. What I walked into moments later shattered every expectation I had.

Michael lay on the bed, fully clothed, his face ashen, breathing shallow and uneven. I called his name. No response.

That was when I noticed something I hadn’t before.

The carbon monoxide detector on the hallway wall was silent—its screen completely dark.

My knees nearly gave out as the truth began to form.

Training videos I’d once half-watched at work suddenly came flooding back into my mind. Headaches. Dizziness. Nausea. Confusion. Loss of consciousness.
Carbon monoxide poisoning.

I didn’t waste another second. Holding Sophie tightly, I ran back outside, gasping for fresh air like I had been underwater. My hands shook as I dialed 911.

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