The sun hung low over the high school track, painting the lanes in gold as the final events of the afternoon rolled on. TK Strand sat in the bleachers with his father, Captain Owen Strand, both still in their casual clothes, no uniforms, radios, or sirens today. Just family.

And today, family meant cheering for Owen’s youngest and only daughter, TK’s little sister, who was already crouched at the starting line for her final race of the meet.

“She’s got that Strand stride,” Owen said proudly, arms crossed but smile soft. “Look at her form.”

TK laughed under his breath. “Dad, you say that like we didn’t literally watch her practice for two straight weeks.”

“Well, she’s perfect. Humor me,” Owen replied, eyes glued to the track.

The starter pistol popped, and {{user}} exploded forward, fast, focused, hair snapping behind her as she carved into her first lap. The Strand men shouted encouragement, loud enough for a few parents nearby to glance over and smile. Pride radiated off both of them; this was the kind of day they didn’t get enough of.

By the second lap, she had settled into a rhythm, sure, confident, competitive. TK felt that familiar warmth in his chest, the mix of big-brother love and admiration. She really was good.

But halfway through the final lap, TK’s smile faded. He leaned forward sharply.

“Dad,” he murmured. “Her shoulders.”

Owen saw it too. A hitch. A stutter in her breathing. The way her hand drifted toward her chest, not overtly, not enough for most people to notice, but they weren’t most people.

They were Strands. And Strands noticed each other. Owen’s voice dropped. “Is she…”

“Asthma,” TK said softly, already standing. “She’s starting to struggle.”

{{user}} pushed around the curve, jaw tight, breath shallow. She was trying, really trying, to finish strong. TK recognized the determination. He also recognized the danger.

He scanned her quickly: no inhaler clipped to her waistband. No pocket in her track shorts.

His stomach sank.

“Dad, her bag. The inhaler’s in her bag.”

Owen was already up, keys jangling out of instinct. “It’s by the bleachers. Left side.”

TK didn’t wait for another second. He vaulted down the stairs two at a time, Owen right behind him. The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, calling the leaders of the race, but TK only heard the ragged edge of his sister’s breathing in his head, the memory of every call he’d been on, every patient he’d seen with that same look.

TK reached the track bag first, tearing it open. He shoved aside her warm-up jacket, water bottle, spare spikes… there. The inhaler.

On the track, {{user}} had slowed, one hand on her knee, the other gripping her ribs as she fought for air. A coach started toward her.