The hospital around her was noisy.
Doctors walked past.
Machines beeped softly in nearby rooms.
Nurses moved through the hallways while patients spoke quietly around her.
But Amara barely noticed any of it.
Her expression remained blank.
Empty.
“Mrs. Creed?”
Amara slowly lifted her head.
An older doctor stood a few feet away from her. He looked to be in his sixties, with glasses resting low on his nose and a serious expression on his face.
“I need you to come with me to my office, please,” he said calmly.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward the room behind him.
Amara rose to her feet and followed him silently inside.
The office smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee.
The doctor walked behind his desk before motioning toward the chair across from him.
“Please, have a seat.”
Amara sat down slowly.
Her eyes briefly dropped to the scratches on her arm. Other than the bump on her forehead and a few bruises, it didn’t seem like she had suffered anything serious. The injuries didn’t seem serious enough to explain the heavy atmosphere in the room.
“Did I break my arm or something?”
Her voice sounded weak and tired.
The doctor didn’t smile.
Instead, he slowly slid several papers across the desk toward her.
“There’s bad news,” he said quietly.
Amara frowned slightly and lowered her eyes toward the papers.
Brain scans.
Her eyes moved across the images before lifting back toward the doctor in confusion..
The doctor adjusted his glasses slightly before continuing.
“You have a mass pressing against your frontal lobe.”
It took Amara several seconds to process his words.
Her eyes slowly dropped back toward the scans again.
