I looked toward the heavy wooden doors of the ICU.

Claire was lying in there, fighting for her life.

She had returned to my house as a silent housekeeper just to see her children.

She had lived under my roof, enduring my coldness, just to be near them.

Suddenly, a sharp beep echoed from the hallway speakers.

The double doors of the ICU swung open.

Dr. Shah hurried out, his face tense.

He spotted me and walked quickly over.

“Mr. Whitmore,” he said.

“You need to come inside.”

“Her monitor just went flat.”

I pushed past Dr. Shah before he could stop me.

The heavy double doors of the ICU swung shut behind us.

The room was filled with the sharp, continuous beep of the flatline.

Two nurses were already flanking Claire’s bed.

One of them was preparing a syringe, her fingers moving with rapid precision.

Claire lay completely still beneath the thin hospital sheet.

Her skin was the color of winter ash.

“Get the cart,” Dr. Shah barked, his voice cutting through the panic.

I backed against the tiled wall, my palms pressing into the cold ceramic.