ASHLEY
“He’s going to be okay, right?”
I don’t even hear myself ask it anymore. I’ve said it so many times it’s like background noise. I can’t sit still. My legs keep bouncing, one shoe tapping the tile like it’s trying to drum out the panic in my chest. I keep wrapping and unwrapping my arms around myself like maybe that’ll stop me from breaking.
God, I can’t even look at the ER doors without wanting to tear them off the f*****g hinges.
He’s going to be okay. He has to be okay. Because I can’t do this. I don’t pray. I don’t even know how. But right now? I found myself walking slowly to the chapel next to where we are.
The last time I’m in a hospital was when I lost my mother. I was young and naive and I thought it’s the end of the world for me.
I don’t know how to do this. I don’t
