It’s been hours since Nico and Vito walked out of here with Dr. Shah.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t ask, because I’m not sure I want to know, and because I’m not sure I can handle even one more thing.
All I know is Dr. Shah hasn’t come back. Not to me, anyway. Not to explain. Not to apologize. Not to update me on my dad.
The only update I’ve gotten is from the ER attending.
A woman with tired eyes and a voice that stays neutral-friendly.
She’d come out, called my name, led me into a small corner by the triage desk, and told me my father was in septic shock.
Septic shock.
Two words that made my vision blacken around the edges.
She’d explained it in simple terms so my brain could actually absorb it: infection overwhelming the body, blood pressure dropping, organs under stress. He told me they were doing everything they could. Fluids. Antibiotics. Medications to support blood pressure.
And because there was also that delayed hemorrhage—because my dad’s body has decided it’s going to throw every possible complication at us—they were going to start drainage efforts with something called interventional radiology.
She said it like it was a plan. A route. A thing people do all the time.
I nodded as if I understood. As if I wasn’t drowning.
I asked if I could see my dad.
The attending’s face tightened in apology before she even spoke.
“Not right now,” she’d said. “We need to stabilize him first. I’ll come back as soon as I have another update.”
And then she’d left me here. Back on the vinyl chair. Back under the TV captions. Back in the hum.
I stare at the double doors as if I stare hard enough, they’ll open, and someone will say, We fixed it. We caught it in time. He’s okay.
My mind keeps trying to build images I don’t want. My dad in a room full of machines. My dad on a bed again. My dad slipping away.
I swallow hard, and my throat aches.
Nico shifts beside me, his shoulder pressing into mine more firmly.
I let myself lean.
Just a little.
Because I can’t hold myself upright alone anymore.
“I hate this,” I whisper.
It barely comes out.
Nico’s hand tightens on mine.
“I know,” he says.
I blink fast and keep my eyes on the doors, because if I look at him, I’ll cry, and I don’t want to cry again in front of all these people who keep showing up for me.
Like this is what family does.
And the worst part is, it feels good.
