Noah moved through the corridors of the White Zone. Everything was blindingly white. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. Even the scratching posts were wrapped in sterile gauze.
He passed rooms with glass walls. Inside, he saw cats in cones—The Cone of Shame—looking miserable. He saw dogs in blue scrubs—Vet-Guards—patrolling with clipboards, their claws clicking on the tile.
He kept his head down, trying to look like a stray, praying his grey jumpsuit blended in with the sterile shadows.
The Breath Catcher, he thought. Where would it be?
He found himself in a central atrium. It was vast, cold, and empty, save for a single pedestal made of stainless steel in the center of the room.
Sitting on the pedestal was an object.
It was a mask. Clear plastic. A green tube attached to the bottom. A small elastic strap.
Noah's breath hitched. He recognized it. Not as a "Breath Catcher," but as a pediatric oxygen mask.
He walked toward it. The beeping sound in the walls grew louder. Faster.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He reached out. His hand shook violently. He knew, instinctively, that touching this object would hurt more than the others.
His fingers brushed the cold plastic.
ZAP.
The room wasn't a fantasy anymore. It was Room 402. Pediatric Oncology. The lights were dimmed.
The beeping was the heart monitor. It was erratic, a terrified bird fluttering in a cage.
Katy was lying in the bed. She looked so small. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her lips were blue. She was gasping for air, her little chest heaving with the effort of simply existing.
"Daddy?" she wheezed. "I can't... I can't breathe."
Panic, hot and blinding, flooded Noah's veins. He grabbed the mask from the wall.
"It's okay, baby," Noah cried, fumbling with the strap. "Put this on. It's the astronaut mask. Remember? It helps you breathe on the moon."
He pressed the mask to her face. She panicked. She fought him, her tiny hands pushing at the plastic.
"No! Scared! Daddy, I'm scared!"
"Please, Katy! Please just breathe! Take the air!"
ZAP.
"I can't!" Noah screamed.
He wasn't in the memory. He was on the floor of the White Zone atrium. But he couldn't breathe. His throat had closed up. The air in the room felt like concrete.
He curled into a ball, clutching his chest. The panic attack hit him like a tidal wave. He was drowning on dry land. The beep-beep-beep was deafening now.
"Subject is distressed!" a robotic voice barked from the ceiling.
Noah looked up through blurry eyes. Two massive Dobermans in blue scrubs were towering over him. They didn't look like cute dogs. They looked like monsters, their snouts long and teeth bared.
"Code Blue," one barked, checking a clipboard. "Subject 42. Hyperventilating. Sedation required."
"No..." Noah gasped, trying to crawl away, his fingernails scratching uselessly against the tile. "Don't... touch me... I have to... bring it back..."
He reached for the mask on the pedestal, but his hand went through it. It was shimmering. A hologram of grief.
The Doberman grabbed his arm with a paw that felt like an iron clamp. A needle glinted in the fluorescent light.
"It's for your own good," the dog growled.
Noah screamed as the needle went in. The white world dissolved into black, and the last thing he heard was the sound of his own heart stopping.