Room 412

The digital clock on the wall reads 11:42 PM. The red numbers glow against the beige paint. You count the seconds. One, two, three, four. The heart monitor next to the bed clicks at a steady rate of 40 beats per minute. Leo lies under the thin blue blanket. His chest rises. The blanket shifts. His chest falls.

The door opens. Nurse Davis steps into the room. She holds a paper cup of water. She sets it on the rolling tray table. She tells you visiting hours end at midnight. She tells you to say your goodbyes. You nod. You pick up the water cup. The plastic is warm. You take a sip. The water tastes like chlorine.

You look at Leo. He is 22 years old. The hospital gown hangs loose on his shoulders. His skin has a gray tint. You remember the drive here. You took Route 9. The speed limit is 55 miles per hour. You drove 70. The rain hit the windshield in heavy sheets. You turned the wipers to the highest setting. The rubber blades could not clear the glass fast enough. You ran two red lights at the intersection of 4th and Main.

You reach out and touch his hand. His fingers are cold. You rub his knuckles with your thumb. You want to tell him about the day he learned to ride a bicycle. You want to tell him about the time he broke his left arm falling out of the oak tree in the backyard. You open your mouth. Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.

The monitor clicks. The rate drops to 38 beats per minute. Then it drops to 35. You grip the metal rail of the bed. The steel is cold against your palm. You look at the clock. The red numbers read 11:49 PM.

You remember his voice from this morning. He called your cell phone at 8:00 AM. He said he had a severe headache. He said he needed to sleep. You told him to drink a large glass of water. You told him to take two ibuprofen tablets. You hung up the phone. You went to your office. You sat at your desk. You answered emails from your manager. You stared at the spreadsheet on your screen. You typed numbers into the cells.

Nurse Davis steps forward. She places a hand on your shoulder. She tells you it is almost time. You look at the clock. The red numbers read 11:53 PM. The monitor clicks slower. The digital display reads 30 beats per minute. Then it reads 25.

You lean closer to his face. You smell the antiseptic soap on his skin. You hear the shallow breathing in his throat. You press your forehead against his cold hand. You tell him you love him. You tell him you are sorry you were not there when the headache started. You tell him you are sorry you told him to just drink water.

The monitor clicks. The display reads 18. Then 12. Nurse Davis checks the pulse at his neck. She looks at the digital screen. She looks at you. The clock reads 11:58 PM. The monitor emits a single, continuous tone. The green line on the screen goes flat.

Nurse Davis reaches over and turns off the alarm. The room goes quiet. The only sound is the hum of the ventilation system in the ceiling. You sit in the vinyl chair. The plastic sticks to the back of your neck. You look at the clock. The red numbers change to 12:00 AM. Visiting hours are over.

You stand up. Your knees pop. You walk to the window. The parking lot is empty except for three cars. The streetlights cast long shadows on the asphalt. A security guard walks past the entrance. He holds a flashlight. The beam sweeps across the concrete. You watch him walk to the end of the driveway and turn the corner. You turn back to the bed. You pull the blanket up to Leo's chin. You sit back down in the vinyl chair. You wait for the doctor to arrive.