The dim cold fluorescent lights cast long, skeletal shadows on the wall.
Arthur had tried to rip off his oxygen mask and IV together, his heart monitor spiking into a loud, frantic alarm. Sarah rushed in, her hands firm on his.
"Stop! You’re crashing, Arthur!"
He settled, the mask and bandage restoring a fragile stability. "She fought like this too," he whispered, his eyes searching Sarah's for an answer she didn't have. "But she lost. She fought for every ounce of life she had, and it still wasn't enough. Why should I fight when the outcome is already written?"
"Sarah leaned in, her voice steady. "Because the outcome isn't written, Arthur. Every day you breathe is a victory she'd be proud of. You're not fighting her battle. You're fighting yours.""