Shiplap Plague
Sara’s bloody nose.
As Devin lay against the worn polyester couch in the hospital waiting room, immobile, vision blurred, the connection jolted him as if someone had hooked his spinal cord up to a car battery. Not that first signs mattered at this point, other than to appease Devin’s insatiable need to know. He tried to focus on his wife’s face, but the lenses of his eyes refused to cooperate. He could only see the faint outline of her body collapsed over that of a patient she had been checking on--what, maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago?
She always put others before herself. It’s why she wanted to become a doctor in the first place. It’s why they both became doctors.
And now they were the patients without anyone left to tend to them.
Thinking back to the morning, Devin
