“That’s the adrenaline,” Elena said softly, pulling back the covers to reveal his chest. She pointed to the V2 and V3 leads on the monitor. “See those big peaks? That’s your heart’s front wall crying for help. The ‘indigestion’ is your heart muscle dying.”

The machine didn’t care about his insistence.

She grabbed a syringe of heparin, a box of aspirin, and paged the cath lab. STAT.

“Anterior infarct is now present,” Elena repeated, this time only in her mind. It wasn’t just a diagnosis. It was a verdict, a clock, and a map all at once. It meant Harold’s left ventricle had lost its best contractor. It meant his ejection fraction would likely fall. It meant, even if she saved him today, he might leave with a scarred, weak heart that would struggle to pump him up the stairs to his own bedroom.

“It’s just heartburn,” she could almost hear him say again.

The gurney’s wheels squeaked as two nurses arrived. They moved Harold with gentle efficiency. Margaret walked beside him, whispering something Elena couldn’t hear—a prayer, a promise, a grocery list, it didn’t matter. It was the sound of someone refusing to let go.

The words sat on the page, black and final.

Elena looked up from the tracing. Through the glass partition of Room 4, she saw Harold sitting on the edge of the gurney, his wife, Margaret, holding his hand. He was smiling. A weak, apologetic smile. The kind that said, Sorry to be a bother, doc.