Adriel POV
"Get your hands off her."
My voice rips through the dead air of the medical wing.
My father does not move. His massive, scarred palm stays pinned flat against Betty’s pale forehead. Beside him, Uncle Jethro keeps his arms crossed, his boots ticking rhythmically against the stone floor. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is the only sound in the room besides the shallow, mechanical rattle of Betty’s breathing.
"I am trying to save her, Adriel," my father says. His voice is a low, gravelly vibration that grates against my nerves. "Sit down before you break something."
"I said, move back."
I step forward, my boots skidding on the polished floorboards. My fists curl until my knuckles turn white. For seven days, I have sat in this exact chair. For seven days, I have counted the seconds between
