My steps are a frantic, echoing tattoo on the linoleum, cutting through the low hum of hospital noise—the distant pages, the squeak of gurney wheels, the murmur of worried families. I don't see any of them. I have a single, laser-focused target.
I skid to a stop at the main reception desk, my breathing already uneven.
"Which floor for Mr. David Hart?" The words are all urgency, no preamble.
The nurse behind the desk looks up, her gaze taking in my expensive, coffee-stained suit, my disheveled hair, the wildness in my eyes.
"Are you a relative? Or a friend?"
I freeze for a second. What am I? His boss? The man who misread his pain as personal rejection?
I hesitate for a heartbeat. Then, quietly, "A friend."
Her eyes narrow slightly, a professional assessing a potential disturbance.
"May I see some ID, sir?"
