The world is a clock. A big, monotonous, unceasing clock that ticks along to the tune of shuffling papers and keyboard clacking. Each second that passes nourishes a flame of anger in Waylon's heart: he's been through this with them already. If they change the schedule, they're suppose to tell him ahead of time. He leans forward — away from the rigid hospital lobby chair's backrest — and he tightens his grip around a plastic-wrapped mix of orange and red roses.

Nurses come, but not for Waylon. The seats around him empty only for more people to arrive to fill them. It all blurs together like the racing colors of a midday car nap. All the while the flame grows and Waylon taps one foot faster and faster. The clock's ticks turn to pounds in his head, then — for a fourth time — a nurse whisks away a person who got there after Waylon.

Fire dies.

It's like all those spaceship hull breaches he's seen in science-fiction movies: where a tiny pinprick in an otherwise solid wall sucks all the air out of a room, but now that pinprick is a depthless pit of hopelessness inside his stomach and mind. Anger flows into it and all that's left behind is one thought: somethings happened, hasn't it? The moment he's seen in his dreams; The moment he's thought about every second next to this godforsaken ticking clock. The moment where Gina dies: where he'll be left all alone. He falls against his chair's backrest.

A scrubs-clad, clipboard-carrying nurse shuffles up to the waiting area. Black curls billowing behind her, she weaves through the maze of chairs and stops in front of Waylon. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ishii! Apologies for the wait; one of the receptionists told me you've been here for a couple hours. Did you not get our email?"

Panic shoots through him, constricting his chest. Did they tell him and he didn't make it in time? His voice cracks. "Email? When did you all send it?"

She beckons Waylon to follow her with a wave of her hand. "This morning. Gina's physical therapist was out today and we paired her with someone else. His schedule was full up during Gina's usual time, so we had to shuffle her around a bit."

Relief patches the hopeless pits leaving behind an odd sense of jittery emptiness. All this panicked energy, but no where to put it. He digs his phone out of his pocket and opens his email: nothing, just like earlier. He taps around the interface. Set in a light grey bubble, a small "1" adorns the side the menu listing for his spam folder.

The nurse smiles down at him. "Went to spam?"

Waylon looks over the email, then shoves the phone back in his pocket with a nod. "Went to spam."

She leads him off and he follows. In the midst of the hospital's maze of clean, tiled corridors, unease tugs at Waylon's mind. Should he say say something to pass the time? He clears his throat. "What is it with that clock: why did you all make it that loud?"

She wheels around just beyond the door frame to Gina's room and she leans against the wall. "No clue. Administration says it's to make us all more productive, but kick me if I've ever met a person who's said that it helps them stay focused."

That didn't take as long as he thought it would; did they switch Gina's room? He twists the door handle, but hesitates and nods toward the nurse. "That tracks. Well, I'll just go on in then; thanks for bringing me."

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Gina's voice comes from inside as a raspy croak instead of its usual bright tone. "Don't just stand out there! Get in or keep moving."

Pressure builds in his chest: a dragging weight of concern. Still, he hoists up the corners of his lips into a smile and pushes through. "Morning, Gina."

Nothing in the room is different. Nothing besides Gina. A blanket covers the majority of her lower body; shadows previously spread across the cloth in gradients and smooth curves thanks to fat and muscle underneath, but now it's harsh. Thin skin and bone turns the blanket into some B-movie CGI with too few polygons.

Nausea and existential anxiety audition for joint roles in Waylon's body; a knot forms in his throat and his stomach swims around his chest. He gulps to force it all down. "How are you doing? Physical therapy go alright?"

She smiles out from a nest of pillows around her head, like a gopher discovering food at the entrance of its burrow. "Terrible. I wish they wouldn't make me do it, but at least lunch was good." Her eyes dart back to her television; the tiny, ceiling-corner-mounted box blares the theme song for her favorite soap opera.

He pulls a chair up to the bed and watches the familiar opening credits. For the hundredth time in his life, a bunch of uncannily attractive faces flash one after another until George appears. Then Gina launches a pillow toward the television. "Fuck you, George!" She darts her eyes back to Waylon with a grimace. "You know he cheated on Marla last week? What an absolute pig of a man. Marla deserves so much better than him."

Breath shoots out Waylon's nose before he knows it and the weight trying to pull his smile down lightens just a little. Each of those characters have died at least five times apiece; how does Gina keep track of it all? He tosses the plastic-wrapped bouquet of orange and red roses onto her lap. "Did Marla forgive him yet? How many times is that now?"

Gina brings the roses to her face and inhales before placing the bundle on the small rolling table next to her. "Just watch and don't sass me about my taste. Whats-his-name kicked my ass in therapy today and if the plot isn't this convoluted to follow, I'm going to pass out in between all your silent contemplations. Deal with it."

A heavyset man in a bowling outfit roams past open lanes on the screen, interrupting games and in one case pushing a woman over who gets too close to him. Making use of her raspier than usual voice, Gina snarls at him just like that mathematician in the first Jurassic Park movie. Or was math guy laughing? It doesn't matter: Waylon shakes his head to toss that train of thought out of his mind. "George, I assume?"

Gina throws that snarl toward Waylon with a snort, her teeth just visible below a curling upper lip. Pockmarked teeth whose enamel that won't last another year. Maybe not even a few months. "You know damn well that's George," she says.

The weight on his smile doubles; her teeth are different now too. He pivots his chair toward Gina with a few shrill scrapes of its metal wire legs against the tile floor. "Right, right. So you know that healer I talked about? I've got the first bit of money we need and I'll probably be able to get the rest within —"

Gina speaks, her raspiness disappearing into a stern, chesty timbre reminiscent of her much younger, much healthier self. "Did you not hear me the first time I said it, Waylon? Don't do anything foolish." She coughs and her raspy voice returns. "Leave it be, I'm fine with things the way they are."

"But —"

Gina pushes out of her pillow nest, straightening her back to its full height. "I said drop —" With an odd gurgle deep within her chest, she coughs. She doubles over onto her lap and grasps fistfuls of blankets as the coughing racks her frail form. Sirens scream from the monitors around the bed like an orchestra of emergency alert broadcasts.

Fear burns through Waylon's mind. It swallows every thought, every emotion. Pity, care, even love: all of it goes up in smoke. The only thing left is the one remaining person that loves him suffering; fighting for her life amid blistering, electronic screeches. He wraps a hand over Gina's tremoring grip and yells. "Nurse! Doctor! We need help!"