Another guest looks up. "TMZ picked it up. Reddit front page." 

Mateo stands center. This invisible boy, suddenly the most visible person in America. 

Dr. Mitchell touches his shoulder. "Ready for what comes next?" 

Mateo doesn't understand. Then David's phone rings. He answers, face going pale. 

"What? When? We're coming now." He looks up, terror fresh. "It's Ethan. Something's wrong. They said come immediately." 

The celebration stops cold. David grabs keys, running. Dr. Mitchell moves fast. "I'm coming." She looks at Mateo. "You, too." 

"Me?" 

"You saved him once. He might need you again." 

They rush toward the exit. David, Dr. Mitchell, Mateo, Carmen following. The crowd parts, silent. In the parking garage, David's Tesla speeds toward Cedars-Sinai, tires squealing. 

Backseat, Mateo's mind races. What could go wrong? Aspiration pneumonia? Delayed reaction? Airway trauma? He doesn't know yet that in twenty minutes he'll face the hardest test of his life. That he'll prove himself not once, but twice. That his five years of study will be tested in ways no thirteen-year-old should face. 

The Tesla cuts through Los Angeles, police escort wailing behind. Inside, four people race toward a hospital where a baby's life hangs in the balance. Again. 

***

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center rises against the Los Angeles night sky. Lit windows like stars in concrete and glass. David's Tesla screeches into the emergency bay, barely stopping before he's out, running. Dr. Mitchell follows, Mateo and Carmen close behind. 

Security try to stop them at the door. Visiting hours, protocols, authorized personnel only. But David's name opens every barrier. Money has that power. 

They rush through sterile hallways, past waiting rooms filled with worried families, past nurses at stations who look up as the billionaire and his unlikely entourage sprint past. The elevator takes forever. David slams the button repeatedly like that will make it faster. His hands shake. His perfect composure from the gala is completely gone, stripped away by the most primal fear: losing a child. 

Fourth floor, pediatric wing. They burst through doors into organized chaos. Nurses rushing, monitors beeping. Overhead lights are harsh and unforgiving. 

A doctor emerges from a room. Dr. Patel. Early forties, kind face now etched with concern. "Mr. Sterling, Mrs. Sterling—" 

Jessica is already in the room. They can hear her through the open door. That sound no parent should make. Raw animal grief mixed with terror. 

"What happened?" David's voice cracks. 

"Sudden respiratory distress. Oxygen saturation dropping. We're trying to stabilize, but—" 

David pushes past into the room. The others follow. 

Baby Ethan lies in a hospital crib, monitors attached, wires everywhere. His tiny chest heaves, struggling for air, lips pale. The monitor shows oxygen levels. 78%. 76. 74. Dropping. 

Jessica clutches the crib rail, tears streaming. "He was fine. He was breathing fine. Then he just—" 

A nurse adjusts oxygen flow. Another checks vitals. Dr. Patel examines Ethan quickly, professionally, but Mateo can see the worry in her movements. 

"Was he aspirating again?" Dr. Patel asks. 

"No, airway's clear." 

"Could be delayed reaction. Trauma to the airway from the initial obstruction." 

Mateo stands in the doorway watching. His mind processes everything. The breathing pattern, the skin color, the timeline. Something's wrong, but it's not an aspiration. The chest movement is different. The sound is different. This is— 

His voice cuts through loud and clear. "It's not an aspiration." 

Everyone turns. 

"Mateo, you can't be in here," Dr. Patel begins. 

He walks in anyway, eyes locked on Ethan. "Look at his chest, the way he's breathing. That's not obstruction. That's an allergic reaction." 

Dr. Patel's face shifts. "Allergic to what?" 

"You gave him antibiotics, didn't you? After the aspiration? Prophylactic, in case bacteria got into his lungs?" 

A nurse checks the chart. "Yes. Amoxicillin, standard protocol." 

"He's allergic." Mateo points to Ethan's skin. "Look. Hives forming on his chest and neck, breathing difficulty. This is anaphylaxis." 

Dr. Patel looks, *really looks*, and her face goes white. "Oh my god, he's right." 

The nurse flips through papers. "But there's no allergy listed." 

"Because he's six months old," Mateo explains quickly. "This might be his first exposure. His parents didn't know." 

Jessica's voice breaks from across the room. "He's never had amoxicillin before. Never had any antibiotics." 

The monitor beeps urgently. Oxygen, 70%. 

Dr. Patel's training takes over. "Get me an EpiPen, pediatric dose, now." 

The nurse runs to a supply cabinet, yanks it open, searches frantically. "We're out. Supply room is on another floor." 

"Then run!" 

"There's no time." Mateo's voice is steady despite his racing heart. "Look at his oxygen. 70 and dropping. By the time she gets back—" 

"I know." Dr. Patel's voice is tight with controlled panic. "I know. We need epinephrine now." 

"You can give it manually. Draw from a vial, calculate dosage, inject intramuscular." 

"I know, but pediatric dosing—if I get the calculation wrong—" 

"0.01 mg per kilogram. He looks about 8 kilos. That's 0.08 mg. Draw from a 1:1,000 concentration vial. That's 0.08 ml." 

Dr. Patel stares at him. "You just calculated that in your head?" 

"I've studied pediatric dosing charts for two years." 

Another doctor in the room, younger, nervous, checks his phone. "He's right. That's correct." 

The monitor. 68%. 66. 

Dr. Patel barks orders. "Get me epinephrine vial, 1:1,000 concentration, and a tuberculin syringe." 

The remaining nurse runs to the cabinet, returns in seconds with supplies. Dr. Patel tears open the packaging, hands shaking as she draws medication into the syringe. The needle trembles. Her breathing is fast, shallow. The pressure is crushing her. 

"I can't... My hands..." She stops, syringe hovering. "I can't steady them." 

Mateo watches the monitor. 64%. 62. Brain damage at sustained levels below 60. 

His voice comes quietly. "May I?" 

Everyone freezes. The room goes silent except for monitors beeping, Ethan struggling to breathe. 

Dr. Patel looks at him. "You're not licensed." 

"Neither was I when I saved him the first time."