Jimmy
Just checking.
Something was wrong. I could feel it in the careful neutrality of his words, the way he was dancing around something. I was about to type back when my phone rang. Margaret's name on the screen.
"Margaret?" I answered, already standing.
"Izzy, honey." Her voice was thin, strained. "I'm at Metro General. Michael... he collapsed at home about an hour ago. They're running tests, but..." She trailed off, and I could hear the controlled panic she was trying to keep at bay.
"I'm on my way," I said, already grabbing my keys from the table. "Which room?"
"Emergency department. They haven't moved him upstairs yet."
I hung up and looked around at my crew, all of them now alert and watching me with the kind of focused attention that meant they knew something serious was happening.
"Cap's at Metro General," I said simply. "I need to go."
"Go," Thompson said immediately, already reaching forhis radio. "I'll call Battalion, get you released for the rest of the shift."
"Thompson — "
"L.T." His voice was firm but gentle. "Cap's family. Go take care of family."
Twenty minutes later, I was pushing through the familiar doors of Metro General's emergency department, my heart hammering against my ribs. The charge nurse — a competent-looking woman I'd seen during previous visits — looked up as I approached.
"I'm here for Michael O'Sullivan," I said. "His... I'm Izzy. Margaret, his wife, called me."
Recognition flickered in her eyes. "Room 4. Margaret's with him."
I walked down the familiar hallway on unsteady legs, past the controlled chaos of the night shift, past the rooms where I'd brought countless patients over the years. But this felt different. This felt personal in a way that made my professional armor feel thin and useless.
Bay 4's curtain was pulled partially closed. I could hear voices inside — Margaret's soft murmur, a deeper voice I didn't recognize, and underneath it all, Cap's familiar rumble, weaker than usual but definitely present.
I knocked softly on the doorframe. "Can I come in?"
"Izzy!" Margaret's voice carried relief and something that might have been gratitude. "Of course, sweetheart."
I pushed through the curtain and stopped short. Cap was propped up in the hospital bed, looking smaller than I'd ever seen him. His skin had that waxy, yellow tinge that spoke of liver problems, and there were dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there three days ago. But his eyes were alert, annoyed, and very much alive.
"There she is," he said, his voice rough but warm. “Knew you’d show up. Stubborn as your old man. Come to bust me out of this place?"
"Depends," I said, moving to his bedside and taking the chair Margaret had vacated for me. "Are you planning to behave yourself?"
"Not if I can help it."
A doctor I didn't recognize — young, serious-looking, with the kind of careful bedside manner that meant he was delivering news no one wanted to hear — cleared his throat.
"Mrs. O’Sullivan? Ms. Delgado? I'm Dr. Lee. I've been treating Mr. O'Sullivan tonight."
I nodded, my hands instinctively reaching for Cap's. His fingers were cold, but his grip was still strong.
"What we're dealing with," Dr. Lee continued, "is ascites — fluid buildup in the abdominal cavity — along with some severe pain that's not responding to his current medication regimen. The cancer has progressed, and we need to drain the fluid and adjust his pain management. We're looking at a few days for treatment and to get him stabilized."
The words washed over me like static. Ascites. Fluid buildup. Pain management. All clinical terms that boiled down to one simple truth: Cap was getting sicker, faster than any of us had expected.
"How long?" I asked quietly.
Dr. Lee exchanged a glance with Cap, who nodded slightly.
