I don’t remember leaving the building. I only remember the jagged rhythm of my own breathing and the blinding flashes of hazard lights reflecting off the asphalt as I tore through three consecutive red lights. My fingers gripped the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned translucent. Please, God, no. Not my ten-year-old boy. Not my anchor.
By the time I skidded into the emergency room bay, leaving my car haphazardly parked on the curb, the triage team had already swarmed him. The scent of isopropyl alcohol, burnt coffee, and raw terror hung heavy in the air.
A physician in wrinkled blue scrubs intercepted me before I could push through the swinging double doors. Dr. Aris pulled me into a cramped side alcove, his expression grim.
“It’s appendicitis, Elena, but we are well past the routine stage,” he said, his words landing like physical blows to my chest. “The appendix has fully ruptured. Sepsis is actively invading his bloodstream. We are prepping an operating theater now. The next forty-eight hours will dictate whether he survives.”
