For forty-eight hours, I lived in the suffocating stillness of Room 402, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of my husband’s chest. Mark had been badly injured in a late-night car wreck, his body a map of bandages and tubes. I only left his side to use the restroom or to call our youngest son, Caleb, whose ten-year-old voice trembled with a fear I was desperately trying to mask in my own. Yet, beneath the grief, a cold intuition began to stir. The medical staff was evasive, their eyes skittering away whenever I asked for a real prognosis. Even more...
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