PoV Mr. Turner

We were waiting outside the hospital room, our hands clasped together. The room was lit with a cold glow, the lights flickering every so often. Mrs. Turner was silently crying, like she did often when we were here. I wrapped an arm around her. She rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. The cold hospital air was all too familiar to us, more familiar than it should be. We waited for the doctor.

The door to our left opened, and the doctor walked in, his clipboard swinging in his hand at his side. He smiled at us – he must be new – and introduced himself as Doctor Williams. He had short dirty blond hair that was combed to the side and an English accent. He flipped a page on his clipboard and frowned.

"Oh," he said. "You must be Timmy's parents. Come this way."

We were led to another small waiting room. Mr. Williams asked us more questions than I could count, and we answered them as best we could. We really seemed like absent parents for the first eight years of his life, but after that, we just couldn't take any more questions.

"Please," my wife said, "can we see him?"

Mr. Williams sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded his head, motioning for us to follow him again. We did, not knowing where we were going again. The halls were quiet, aside from the occasional cry of a baby. Were we in the infantry wing? Why would we be?

Mr. Williams stopped before a solid white door without a window, and turned to us.

"Please don't be upset with his progress. We're doing the best we can," he said, and opened the door.