The corridor outside the ICU did not go quiet.
It tightened.
The alarms had stopped quickly, cut short with practiced hands and faster judgment, but the aftermath lingered in the air like static. Nurses moved with purpose behind the closed doors. Footsteps crossed and recrossed the threshold. A curtain was pulled. A cart rolled past and then back again. The kind of activity that refused explanation and offered no reassurance.
Willow stood with her back against the wall, palms flat at her sides, trying to convince her body that collapse was not an option.
Lorrlyne stood beside her, spine straight, hands folded loosely in front of her as if posture itself might impose order on a situation that refused it.
No one spoke to them.
That was the worst part.
