Chapter 3 - THE THREAT AT THE KITCHEN SINK
Nora stood by the stainless-steel sink, her fingers gripping the insulin vials like a dictator holding execution orders. The kitchen smelled faintly of chemical waste where she had already cracked open a backup cartridge and emptied it down the drain. Outside, the gray November sky hung heavy over our quiet suburban street, the Black Friday shoppers miles away in Columbus, leaving us entirely isolated.
“You have maybe a few hours before this gets bad,” Nora said, her voice dripping with sadistic satisfaction. My throat was already dry as dust, and my mouth tasted intensely of copper—the classic internal warning sign that my blood sugar was beginning its dangerous climb toward ketoacidosis. She wanted me to panic. She wanted me to cry and beg. But the cold realization that my own sister was willing to risk my life for a fabricated confession pushed all fear out of my chest, replacing it with a razor-sharp survival instinct.
