The phone slipped from my hand, cracking against the floor.
My heart shattered with it.
The hospital room door opened. My father stirred awake.
He weakly lifted his hand, pulled off the oxygen mask. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Wendy..."
I lunged forward, grabbing his withered hand, tears streaming down.
"Dad, I'm here. I'm here."
"Don't rush... Dr. Henson..."
He struggled to breathe, forcing a weak smile.
"He's busy... important things first... Dad can hold on..."
"Dad... doesn't hurt..."
I wanted to kill myself in that moment.
My father, even dying, was still making excuses for that bastard. Still worried about putting me in a difficult position.
And that bastard was miles away at some club, ignoring a dying man to chase a pretty face.
At 4:00 a.m., the hospital issued the final notice.
"Dr. Winfield, if surgery doesn't happen before 8:00 tomorrow morning, you need to prepare for the funeral."
I looked at the wall clock.
Four hours.
I couldn't just wait for death.
I wiped my tears, picked up the cracked phone, resolve hardening in my eyes.
If he wouldn't come back, I'd drag him back myself.
The streets before dawn stretched empty and desolate, streetlights casting long shadows.