I pressed against the glass, watching the frantic movement inside, watching my father—covered in tubes—jolt upward with each shock from the defibrillator.
My nails dug into the wall. Blood seeped out. I couldn't feel it.
Half an hour later, the attending physician emerged drenched in sweat. He pulled off his mask, expression grave.
"Dr. Winfield, your father's condition has worsened."
"He just went into sudden ventricular fibrillation. We brought him back, but it's critical."
"We need to perform a modified bypass within 24 hours, or… not even God could save him."
Twenty-four hours.
Modified bypass surgery.
In all of Sacred Heart Hospital—in the entire city—only one surgeon could perform it with a success rate above fifty percent.
Adrian Henson.
He was my only hope.
My hands shook as I dialed his number.
Beep… beep… beep…
Each ring hammered against my chest.
No answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Like a woman possessed, I dialed that number I knew by heart, over and over.
On the twelfth try, he finally picked up.
The background noise was loud—soothing jazz, clinking glasses.
"Adrian!"
My voice cracked, desperate. "My dad's dying! The doctor says he needs surgery now! Can you—"
"I'm busy."