The room smells like disinfectant and illness. Charles is lying in the bed with an oxygen mask over his nose. He’s hooked up to several machines that beep and whir—he almost seems more machine than human. Andrea feels her eyes flood with tears.
“Charles,” she gasps.
She runs across the room and grabs his thin hand from the top of the quilt. It feels limp and lifeless in her own hands, and he doesn’t seem to notice her at all. His eyes don’t even flicker. She swallows back a sob.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asks.
“Mrs. Hamilton, can I please have a word with you outside?” the doctor asks.
Andrea follows him into the corridor, looking over her shoulder at Charles. The doctor clears his throat and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He stuffs his hand in his pocket and looks
