He laughed once. “What?”
“Read it.”
He snatched the can from me, flipped it over, and peeled back the corner of the fake label.
The color left his face instantly.
Part 2: The Label
He read in silence.
Then he read it again.
Warning text in red block letters. Imported veterinary compounds. Somatropin derivatives. Phenobarbital. Not approved for human infant consumption. Risk of respiratory suppression.
He dropped the tin.
It hit the tile and rolled under a chair.
“She bought horse supplements?” he said, but he already knew it was worse.
“She bought growth agents and barbiturates,” I said. “For a baby.”
He looked at the powder in the trash like it had just grown teeth.
“She said he was fussy,” I continued. “She wanted him bigger and quieter. That’s all this is.”
Julian’s breathing went shallow. “No. No, she wouldn’t—”
“She would. And you were about to mix the bottle for her.”
He grabbed his phone with both hands. Fumbled it. Nearly dropped it. “I need to call her.”
“You’re late.”
He looked up.
I checked the time on the microwave. “I translated the label this morning. I called our pediatrician. Then I called the DEA and the FDA investigator on duty.”
He just stared.
I kept going.
“Those cans were imported illegally. She brought restricted compounds into this country and planned to feed them to our son. I gave them the address an hour ago.”
For one second, the house was perfectly still.
Then his phone rang.
His mother.
He answered on speaker by mistake.
All we heard was screaming.
Federal agents.
Search warrant.
Boxes taken.
Questions about shipment records.
A demand for Julian to get there now.
He ended the call with a shaking thumb.
Then he looked at me the way men look at disasters they don’t understand.
“What did you do?”
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