John washed up, after a long and arduous surgery. The patient had died. Now it was time to tell the family. I’m sorry for your loss, but your son fucked up, got drunk and pedaled his bicycle in front of a bus. I tried but couldn’t put all the pieces back together again. Fuck, this part of the job sucked.
He made his way to where the family waited, their eyes hopeful and wary at the same time. Then the mother looked at him and he looked at her. She knew, even before he spoke she knew. Her wail of grief made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Her husband moved to catch her.
He looked at John, wanting the empirical evidence his heart couldn’t accept. “I’m sorry, your son didn’t survive, his injuries were too severe.”
“Did he regain consciousness and say anything?”
The mother’s sobs made John want to scream as well. “No, I’m sorry.” Then he left, knowing that he would hear her sobs in his dreams. I need a drink. When is my bloody shift over? He stopped just outside his office and looked at the figure that hovered at the door. “Wong, is that you? How are you? What are you doing here?” Then he looked at Wong and Wong looked at him. “Oh Christ, it’s Strange, isn’t it?”
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