As night wore on, worry turned into cold, sharp terror. The kittens were no longer moving. In a desperate, confused bid to help, John and Fiona moved them from the basement back to the mudroom, but nothing made a difference. The kittens lay sprawled on the cold linoleum, their tiny chests heaving in a rhythmic, desperate struggle that sounded like wet parchment tearing. Fiona knelt beside them, hands hovering over their fur, trembling. "John, I don't know what's happening," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Are they choking? Is it the food?" She tried to gently open the smallest one's mouth to check for an obstruction, but there was nothing—only that terrifying, jagged gasp for air.