Michael Burt wished he could smoke as he sat in the waiting room of St. Francis Hospital in Madison. Not only would it give him the fix his filthy habit demanded, it would give him something to do to pass the time while he waited for word on Hunter. Once upon a time, wasn’t it commonplace to allow smoking in hospital waiting rooms? He slouched down in the plastic molded seat, knowing the very thought now seemed absurd.
It was ten in the evening. He had read through every New Yorker, Time, and Sports Illustrated in the room, gone outside to indulge his dirty habit several times, eaten at least three Snickers bars, and drunk enough coffee to keep him wired for days.
Official visiting hours were over, and a nurse had told Michael a while back that Hunter had not yet regained consciousness.
