Mrs. Carter’s POVI sat beside my husband’s bed, my fingers twisting together in my lap. The doctor’s hand moves slowly over the machine, checking his vitals. The sound of the beeping monitor fills the silence, steady and slow. My husband looks pale, too pale. His lips have lost their color, and his breathing sounds faint, almost like he’s tired of even that.

The doctor’s face is grim as he presses the stethoscope to his chest. I hold my breath, waiting for something, anything that ...