The ICU waiting room was small and cold, bathed in harsh fluorescent light and thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic.
Two hours had passed since Papa had been rushed through the double doors into the ICU.
Two agonizing hours.
The doors hadn't opened once.
Not for a doctor.
Not for a nurse.
Not for anyone.
Anna sat rigidly in one of the plastic chairs, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers ached. Her gaze never wavered from the closed double doors.
Beside her, Isabella sat curled into herself, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs.
She had stopped crying about twenty minutes ago, but the damp tracks mapping her cheeks left her looking utterly undone.
Every few minutes, a small sound escaped her throat—something between a
