The scent hits me before the automatic doors even slide shut behind me: a harsh, sterile cocktail of antiseptic, machine oil, and stale anxiety. It's the smell of a future I don't have time for.
I'm running on three hours of sleep, my nerves humming with adrenaline. The hospital at 7:00 a.m. is a ghost town of silent, exhausted nurses and the harsh, stuttering flicker of fluorescent lights overhead.
In my hand is a bunch of white lilies, Zoe's favorite and a ridiculously oversized teddy bear I don't remember buying. It looks stupid on my suit but it's the only thing I have that feels human right now.
My phone rang an hour ago. The doctor didn't waste time:
"Her vitals are crashing, Damian. You should get here."
I didn't ask questions, just dressed up, grabbed my keys and left. Stopping along the way to grab flowers and teddy bear.
I'm in the pediatric oncology ward and the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of monitors is the only heartbeat in this place.
"Damian."
