When I arrived at the hospital, I was panting, my chest heaving with exertion as I leaned on the frame of the door.

I felt that ache at the back of my throat that you got when you ran, and breathed too hard for your lungs to handle.

Dr. Parks was waiting in the lobby, eyes dark and liquid behind his glasses. As soon as he saw me, his face became even more solemn, if that were possible.

Gasping, I spat out a comprehensible sentence. “I’m…not late?”

He shook his head, and wordlessly, stalked off in the direction of papa’s room.

I followed after him, feeling (and probably looking) haggard.

My mind was a mess.

My heart was pounding a beat between my ribs, fluttering around like a wild bird ensnared in a trap.

I could hear the hammering of my pulse in my ears, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound.

Soon, the view of the white-washed door of my father’s room greeted me.

Still silent, Dr. Parks pushed it open and gestured me to go inside.

“You have a few minutes.”

Mutely, I nodded.