David adjusted the breathing mask on his face, rubbing the reddened furrows the rigid plastic had dug next to his nose. Peter watched his son’s movements, the effort it cost him to simply raise his arm, and the loathing he felt for God rose to his throat in a barely-suppressed roar. He glanced at the door to the private room, locked now from the inside. The drugs he would need were in his hip pocket, mixed in a single syringe. He’d taken them from the operating room days ago, when he made his decision.
Is he going to kill his child? An attempt to ease the pain? Or is he just crazed?
