The small living room was dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb. A sense of neglect clung to the air, thick with the smell of damp wood and something slightly metallic. Daniel and Linda quickly scanned the room, their eyes landing on a figure slumped on the worn-out sofa.
Emily’s mother, a woman in her thirties, lay unconscious, her face pale as if drained of life. Her arm hung limply over the side, an empty prescription bottle just inches from her fingertips. The coffee table was cluttered with unopened mail, most emblazoned with red letters demanding payment.
Linda rushed to the woman’s side, checking for a pulse. “She’s breathing,” Linda announced, relief washing over her. But it was weak, too weak. “We need paramedics here, fast.”
