Missing Miracle Worker

My phone buzzed impatiently in my hand. Another missed call from Dr. Evans. It had been three hours since she'd left for a quick "equipment check" at the university lab before the conference. Three hours of rising panic gnawing at my gut. Dr. Evans wasn't one to miss deadlines, especially not this one.

Her research, a revolutionary new gene therapy with the potential to cure ALS, was the holy grail for our foundation. Years of tireless work, countless fundraising events, all leading to this very moment. A packed room of journalists, eager investors, and most importantly, hopeful patients, all waiting for Dr. Evans to unveil the key to unlocking a future free from ALS.

I smoothed out the crisp white tablecloth covering the refreshments table, a meager attempt to calm my nerves. Bottles of water sat next to a plate of untouched pastries. The room buzzed with a nervous energy, the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

Glancing at my watch again, my heart hammered against my ribs. I needed to act. Ignoring the internal debate about causing a scene, I marched towards the head nurse's station.

The sterile white walls of the hospital gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Stainless steel gleamed even brighter, catching the reflection of my jittery movements. Unlike the museum's grand event hall, with its soaring ceilings and historical charm, this waiting room felt sterile and cold. It felt a world away from the bustling press conference I'd meticulously planned for Dr. Evans' groundbreaking announcement.