Donald sat in the waiting room, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
The clock on the wall ticked slowly, painfully slow, like it was mocking him. Every second that passed felt like a knife twisting inside his chest.
The door to the surgery room stayed shut, the red light above it glowing like a warning sign.
He stood up, paced a few steps, then sat again. His leg bounced restlessly.
He had never felt this helpless in his life. The thought that Grace was somewhere behind those walls, fighting for her life, tore something deep inside him.
He pressed his fists against his knees and bowed his head.
"Please make it," he whispered under his breath. "Please don't leave me."
He could still see her face. Her soft, peaceful smile. He could hear her voice, the way she said his name. And now, she was lying on an operating table, her life hanging by a thread because someone wanted her gone.
