The hallway outside the surgical ward seemed endless, its sterile white walls swallowing every sound except the relentless echo of Jamiro’s heartbeat. He paced back and forth, his palms slick with sweat, his breath shallow. Every few minutes, he stopped to look at the closed double doors as if sheer force of will could make them open with good news.
Behind him, Apple sat stiffly on a plastic chair, arms crossed, her jaw clenched tight to hold back tears that threatened to escape. Joshua sat beside her, his legs bouncing, his face pale. He looked younger than his age at that moment—like a child waiting for someone to tell him the nightmare was just a dream.
Jamiro stopped pacing. His eyes were red, not from lack of sleep but from the weight of fear pressing against him. “She’s strong,” he
