The ride was rough; I couldn't stop coughing. The driver glanced at me with concern. "Are you okay, miss?"
I took a deep breath, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine, really."
Once at the hospital, I got in line to see the doctor for my injuries.
After a quick examination, he prescribed some medication and warned me to avoid water.
As I left, I spotted Marvin. What a coincidence.
I quickly turned my head, not wanting to see him—or his new girlfriend.
Another fit of coughing hit me, and I covered my mouth, feeling the warm trickle of blood on my hand. A stranger handed me a tissue, and I looked up at him gratefully.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.
I shook my head weakly. "I'm fine."
He pressed further, "What about your family?"
I forced a wry smile.
My parents had passed away five years ago, along with Marvin's, in a tragic plane crash.
"They're gone," I said quietly.
"Wow, I'm sorry to hear that. But you really should get checked out; your cough looks pretty serious. It could be your lungs," he suggested, concern etched on his face.
I managed a faint smile. If there were even a glimmer of hope for healing, I wouldn't feel so utterly lost and hopeless.