"The doctor is not telling clearly whether he'll live or not," I said to Andrew. We were outside his house gate. It was almost midnight and I was bone tired.

"They never do, Keighlah. They're always . . . unsure about the patient's life." Andrew replied.

"And we both know what being unsure means."

Andrew shot me a look. I shook my head and sighed.

"I'm just preparing for the worst."

He pursed his lips and nodded at me understandingly. I stared at my new, white keds which had few specks of dirt here and there. I sighed once more and looked at him.

"Cool, then I'll see you tomorrow," I said.

"Yeah," nodded Andrew. "Get some sleep, okay?" He gave me a sideways hug.

"I'll try." I flashed him a fleeting smile. He turned around and walked up the path to his house and I climbed into the car.

I sat down beside my mother and laid my head on her chest. Her arm came around me and rested on my hair. She sniffled a little. I looked at my aunt. She looked away, her eyes glassy. And I felt my own tears pool into my eyes.

The next day, we gathered again in the hospital. Dad was still unresponsive. It worried me.

I was sitting on the uncomfortable hospital chairs glancing through the papers and reports when Andrew dropped down on the chair beside mine. I looked at him.

"Angela called," he said without preamble. "Tour starts in December."

I remained quiet, and then, "it all depends on whether my father will live or die."

Andrew winced at my bluntness. "Yes, but—it's our world tour. I don't know if I'm sounding insensitive right now, I hope I'm not, but Keighlah, it's our world tour."

I stared at his eyes. "You're not sounding insensitive Andrew, you're sounding like Angela."

He let out a deep sigh.

"Look–" he paused. "I'm sorry." He took my hand. "I'm sorry, Keighlah. I should not have brought it up. We'll see how things turn out and we'll go along accordingly."

I gave him a short, jerky nod and glanced back at the reports. After a while, I threw my hands up. "No improvement. It's been four days."

Andrew's eyes darted between my face and the reports that lay on my lap. I could hear his silent question. Why are you so calm?

"Does that mean–"

"I don't know," I cut him off. "I don't know what anything means anymore. But the only thing that I do know is that if he really doesn't survive, then my mother will be destroyed."

Andrew sucked in a breath. I held his hand tighter, my knuckles turning white as paper as we both stared at the light green hospital wall, dreading the worst.

Later during the visiting hours, I was sitting beside my father on the bed, a troubled expression on my face. My eyes moved across his wounds and bandages, over and over again. His purple wounds had faded to red marks; it should've brought me some reassurance, but it didn't. Because his lungs were ruptured, and they were not healing, and that was worrying me enough to not feel any reassurance over his fading wounds.

Dad had always been a chainsmoker. He had been compelled to stop smoking only a few years ago, when a chance of probable lung cancer had occurred. His lungs were already weak to begin with.

I sighed loudly and looked away, at the floor. I was staring blankly at the clean marble when I saw something move in the corner of my eye. I jerked my head towards the motion and realised it was my father's little finger. I gasped and stared at it.

Maybe it was just an imagination, a hallucination. I hadn't caught a wink of sleep since the day before yesterday. Maybe it was just my exhaustion. Maybe—

And there it was again. His finger was moving, wiggling rather. Hope pierced through my chest like a glass dagger. My eyes darted over to his face. It was smooth, like he was deep in sleep. But his finger was moving.

"Is there a nurse here?" I bellowed. This is what they did in the movies–call for the nurses and doctors when the patient showed the tiniest bit of motion.

I heard a gasp. It was my father. He started sputtering above me. I gripped his shoulder. "Dad?" I said, helplessly.

His mouth was opening and closing, rapidly, like a fish trying to breath. No, I realised. He was saying something. I couldn't hear it.

"Dad?" I leaned towards him, trying to hear.

Koko, Koko, Koko.

He was saying my name.

"Dad," I whispered. "I'm here. I'm right here."

I touched his forehead hesitantly. It was burning hot. Suddenly, he gasped out loud, a throaty sound coming out of him, and his eyes flew open.

"Pappa?" I yelled. He looked at me, his eyes wide and disoriented. He had paled, his dark skin almost turning a lighter shade. The heartbeat monitor started screaming beside the bed, a loud beeping sound resonated throughout the room.

Just as suddenly he had looked at me, he fell down on the bed, eyes closed, his expression becoming serene, as if nothing had ever happened. The heartbeat monitor slowed down to a low pulse. My hands started shaking, and my heart sunk down.

"Pappa? Pappa?!" I grabbed his shoulder, shaking him.

Suddenly, a bunch of people entered into the room, all nurses.

"Ma'am." One of them said in an eerily calm voice. "Ma'am, I need to you to step away from the patient."

"What do you mean 'step away', he's my father!" I stood rigidly beside the bed.

"Ma'am please–"

"No, you tell me one thing. His finger moved, he called my name, he opened his eyes, he looked at me. Then he stopped—why did he stop?"

Andrew burst into the room. "Keighlah, come on–"

"No–" I started to protest, but he had already taken an iron grip on my hand and pulled me away.

"No, STOP!" I wrenched myself free from him. "He opened his eyes! He called my name! Why did he stop?"

"Yes yes, I believe you, Keighlah. Now let the nurses work—"

"No, Andrew!"

"Keighlah, please, you're making a scene." He hissed at me and grabbed my wrist painfully.

I stopped. Before I could say anything, the doctor entered into my peripheral vision. I darted towards him.

"Doctor, my father–"

"Yes, I'm going right there." He cut me off.

"No but listen, my father–"

"Miss D'Cruz, I need you to calm down and step away so we can do our job properly," he said coolly, and passed me to enter my father's room.

Andrew placed a hand on my shoulder. "Keighlah, please calm down–"

I slapped his hand away. "I'm calm, okay! I'm calm. Jesus."

I stomped away and sat down on the uncomfortable hospital chair, hardly being able to keep the tears from falling out.

• • •

Next chapter - next Wednesday at 10pm IST.