“How's he doing, Doc?” I asked after minutes of torturing silence.
Father looks as ghostly as an actual corpse. The only tiny difference is that he's taking his little breaths. There's no oxygen to aid his breathing as we aren't very equipped medically. We still cater to the traditional ways.
The physician has been here for half an hour now. Exactly 45 — nah, I just glanced at my watch again — 47 minutes now. He had his tools and had been piercing syringes into Father's body. So far, he hasn't said a word. Just mournful sighs and shaking his head.
Those gestures, however small they seemed, were only making me more nervous and making my legs shaky.
“Doc,” I called him sharply. He looked at me and the fear in his eyes skyrocked my anxiety. “Tell me something.” My voice was a sorry bl
