I dialed Michelle. It rang until it timed out. I dialed James.
A text arrived three minutes later: Stuck at the firm. Crazy deadline to meet. Hope he’s okay.
Hope he’s okay. As if Ethan had a slight sniffle. As if he had scraped his knee on the playground.
The surgery dragged on for four agonizing hours. I sat entirely alone on a stiff, vinyl chair. All around me, the beautiful, heartbreaking theater of humanity played out. I watched sprawling, chaotic families rush through the sliding doors, clustering around grieving wives and anxious husbands. I saw aunts carrying cardboard trays of steaming coffee, uncles enveloping their nephews in bone-crushing hugs. People taking turns holding the line, standing vigil.
I sat in the corner, clutching a cold, untouched paper cup of water, shivering in my thin work blouse. The silence from my phone felt louder than the wailing sirens outside. And as the clock ticked past eight o’clock, a cold, dark realization began to take root in the fertile soil of my grief.
At 8:30 PM, the heavy surgical doors hissed open. Dr. Aris emerged, his surgical cap pulled off, revealing exhausted eyes. He walked straight toward me, and the look on his face made the floor tilt violently beneath my feet
