Today, not tomorrow.

Blip. Blip. Blip. “Okay God,” Bfffff. Tshhhhh. Bffff. Tshhhh. “What now?” The hospital machines are rhythmic and steady. Supporting life, where it isn’t. IV drips, holding fluids and medicinal cocktails run down, like a trail of wires. “Please Father, God Please.” These were the same words I’d been saying for the last few weeks, and last night, they were even more desperate. Jen's* hand rested in mine, her eyes stayed closed too, too weak to open. Across the small room, Andrew* was in a chair, sleeping only because of exhaustion and worry. “Please God, Please.” It felt like the only thing I could say right now. “Please God,” I rested my head on the bed; “please, I can’t lose another friend.”



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