Liam touched it. A jolt of understanding shot up his arm. Suddenly, he saw it: sodium-potassium pumps, calcium channels, the slow, strong squeeze of a failing heart learning to beat again.
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“Touch it,” the skeleton whispered. “But only one finger. The dose makes the poison.” Liam touched it
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Liam laughed. Then he yawned. His head hit the keyboard.
For the next three hours—or three minutes; time had become a half-life—Liam ran through the library’s twisted aisles. Each drug was a character. ACE inhibitors were tiny plumbers shutting off leaky valves. Beta-blockers were stoic guards standing in front of the heart’s panic button. Warfarin was a blind weaver snipping threads of clot.
When he finally found Digoxin, it wasn’t a pill. It was a tiny, glowing frog on a lily pad labeled Digitalis purpurea .