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“I know so,” I say, with more certainty than I feel—but maybe if I keep saying it, we’ll believe it together.

Lucas clears his throat, then finally crosses the room to sit beside Sam, his hand slipping around hers. “Eddie’s puttingeverything on the line for this,” he says quietly. “Every damn thing.”

He doesn’t mean the press. Or the stage. Or the label.

He means his heart.

Sam squeezes his hand. “I hate that he’s carrying so much,” she murmurs. “But I’m so grateful too.”

I nod, emotion bubbling just under my skin. “He’s doing it for Joey. For you. For every family waiting for a call.”

Lucas leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair.

There’s a shadow in his eyes tonight I haven’t seen before. Something raw. Something that feels like he’s balancing on the edge between fear and hope and doesn’t know which way the wind will blow.

“Everything rides on this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to us. “This night. This push. This chance.”

I want to say something to soothe him. To steady the shaking foundation under all of us.

But the truth is—we all feel it.

Joey’s life might not change tonight. But the clock is ticking.

And we’re running out of time.

The clock on the screen reads 04:58. The lights dim on the livestream as the music swells, a soft pre-show hum, like the world holding its breath.

Sam rises from the couch with the monitor still in her hand, glancing down at the grainy image of Joey’s room. “I’m just going to peek in,” she says. “He hasn’t moved at all.”

I nod, offering a small smile that feels too thin to mean anything. “Of course. Go.”

She disappears down the hallway, the door creaking shut behind her.

Lucas stays seated, his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles are white. The glow fromthe TV flickers against his jaw, and I can see the muscles there twitching with a tension he’s trying not to show.

There’s a weight in the air. A slow, creeping sense of something wrong.

I shift, trying to ignore the chill skating along the back of my neck.

But then—

“Lucas!”

Sam’s scream cuts through the air like a blade.

Then again. “Lucas! Oh God—Joey—Lucas!”

He’s on his feet in an instant, a blur of movement bolting down the hall and up the stairs. “Laney, with me!”

I don’t even think. My legs move before my mind does, my heart jackhammering in my chest as I chase him, my feet slamming on the stairs. Every sound sharpens—Sam’s frantic voice, the rush of blood in my ears, the creak of the banister under my hand.

When we reach the doorway, I stop short.

Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling Joey in her arms. His little body is slack, his face pale and swollen, his fingers like tiny sausages, his eyes fluttering with exhaustion and something else, something wrong.

It’s fluid retention. I know it is. I’ve seen it before. But seeing it in Joey—watching his mother rock him like he’s breakable—rips something straight from my chest.

“He won’t wake up properly,” Sam sobs, voice cracking. “He’s breathing but he’s so… heavy.”