Brandon’s liver failed, they said. The cancer. A cheetah, pouncing at long last.
The hospital room had no windows. An end table housed mashed potato stained magazines, and an IV towered over an electric bed. White paint peeled, revealing yellow walls.
“Step aside, please,” barked a nurse.
She wore bright scrubs, one size too tight, printed with smiling woodland creatures. As the nurse shoved an IV into Brandon’s arm, I caught his gaze. Two yellow eyes implored me, asking questions I couldn’t bear to answer.
When the needle dug deeper into Brandon’s papery skin, I flinched. He didn’t.