“I heard her talking in the hallway earlier,” Clara said, her voice shaking uncontrollably. “You need to check your—”
“Is everything prepped in here?” a loud voice boomed.
Two tall surgeons walked briskly into the room, snapping their sterile gloves into place.
“Yes, doctor,” Clara stuttered, instantly stepping away from my bed.
“Good,” the lead surgeon said. “Let’s get him rolling to operating room four.”
The medical team unhooked the brakes on my bed and started pushing me toward the corridor. My mind was racing, spinning wildly out of control.
“Wait!” I yelled, trying to sit up. “Nurse! What were you saying?”
Clara stood paralyzed in the center of the empty room.
She looked utterly terrified, her hands clasped tightly against her chest.
“Just relax, Neal,” the surgeon said gently. “The anesthesia is already kicking in.”
“No, stop the bed!” I pleaded, my vision blurring as the heavy medication flooded my veins. “I need to talk to her!”
But before she could answer, the surgeons wheeled me away, leaving me alone with the terrifying echo of her warning.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Melissa whispered. “You finally made it.”
I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital recovery room.
“Daddy’s awake!” my little girl, Chloe, cheered from the corner.
