I approached the glass chamber and found the control panel on the right side of the sliding door.

The digital screen was dark, but a physical override lever sat beneath it.

I grabbed the metal handle and pulled it down.

With a hiss of pneumatic pressure, the heavy glass door slid open.

The smell of sterile linen and copper hit my nose.

I stepped inside, my boots clicking on the metal floor plates.

The man in the bed did not move at first.

His face was drawn, his skin translucent under the harsh lights of the medical equipment.

He looked decades older than the man who had taught me how to shoot a rifle in the woods behind our old house.

His hands, once strong and precise, lay flat on the sheet, covered in dark bruises from failed intravenous lines.

“Dad,” I said, louder this time.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly.

His eyes were cloudy, but as they focused on my face, a sudden spark of recognition lit them.

“Natalie,” he croaked.

His voice sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.