She looked younger than me, perhaps in her early thirties, her hair cascading around her shoulders like a dark halo. An IV drip was attached to her arm, and monitors beeped softly beside her, tracking her vital signs with mechanical precision.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice soft but strained. Her gaze flickered to the hospital chart in my hand, understanding dawning slowly.
“I… I saw my husband’s name on your chart,” I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “Thomas Arnett. He’s listed as your emergency contact.”
Her eyes widened slightly, and she looked away, her expression shifting to something I couldn’t quite read. Was it guilt? Fear? Or something else entirely?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rhythmic beeping. And then she turned her head away, staring at the wall as if hoping it would swallow her whole.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. I glanced at the chart again, my mind racing with questions.
“Do you know him well?” I asked, unsure of what I wanted her to say.
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “We… we worked together,” she said, her words careful and deliberate. “But it’s complicated.”
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
