The Secretary of Health and Human Services stood behind the podium with a preacher’s calm, his hands folded as if he were offering absolution.
“For decades you have been lied to,” he said. “Tylenol has poisoned our families, corrupted our children, weakened our nation. Autism, infertility, moral decline—they all trace back to one pill.”
Applause thundered across the hall. Cameras flashed. He smiled, not with relief but with calculation. He had given them an enemy, and that was worth more than truth.
Anthony watched from the break room, the screen flickering above half-empty coffee cups. “Autism, infertility, moral decline,” he repeated aloud, his voice sharp with disbelief. “It’s Tylenol now?”
No one answered. A colleague quietly closed her laptop. Another twisted his wedding ring. The silence made Anthony’s chest feel heavier than the speech itself.
For years, he had defended the brand with numbers and charts, building trust one skeptical doctor at a time. Now it was unraveling in an afternoon, and all he could think was that his words had never mattered at all.
On the drive to Cleveland, the radio howled with callers praising the Secretary’s courage. One caller swore his cousin’s dog had died from a stray tablet. Another blamed Tylenol for her son’s truancy. Anthony gripped the wheel tighter.
At a stoplight, he noticed a pharmacy window plastered with red letters: “NO TYLENOL SOLD HERE.” A woman stepped out, balancing a feverish toddler on her shoulder. She looked pale, frightened. Anthony saw her drop a prescription slip into the trash before buckling her child into a car seat.
He pulled over and jogged up to her.
“Ma’am, did they refuse to fill it?”
She hesitated. “They said I shouldn’t take it. I’m pregnant. They said it could… ruin my baby.” Her voice wavered.
Anthony forced calm into his tone. “I’ve read every study. None of what the Secretary said is real. What’s real is that a high fever can harm your pregnancy. Tylenol is safe if you use it properly.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how do I know you’re not just another salesman trying to protect his paycheck?”
That stung, because there was truth in it. But Anthony swallowed and said, “Because if you get sicker, no politician will come to help you. They’ll be too busy celebrating their victory. You and your baby will just be collateral.”
That night, she sat hunched over her laptop. Fever blurred the words, but she kept searching. Every tab told a different story: the Secretary’s confident speech, blog posts teeming with conspiracy, paywalled studies, a Mayo Clinic article matter-of-fact in its reassurance.
Her phone buzzed with a message from her sister: Don’t take Tylenol! Protect the baby! She set it face-down on the table.
The Secretary’s face filled one tab—smooth, reassuring, triumphant. He looked like a man who had nothing to lose. She realized that was the problem. He didn’t. She did.
She closed her eyes, hand resting on the swell of her stomach. “It’s just us,” she whispered.
The next morning, she twisted open the childproof cap and swallowed two tablets with a glass of water.
Across the state, Anthony sat in his car, watching the Secretary’s latest appearance on a muted television through a diner window. The man was louder now, waving charts like scripture, but Anthony no longer flinched.
Somewhere, someone was still listening. Someone had chosen reason over fear.
And in a quiet kitchen, a fever broke.