DOMINIC
"How long is she going to stay like this?" I asked Dr. Daniel Blake. He was a middle-aged, bald, stout man with a pouch as a stomach, and he'd been my personal doctor for the past twenty years.
He sighed, rising from the bed, his stethoscope dangling from his neck as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "A few days," he said.
My brows drew together as I stared at him. "What are a few days, exactly?" I needed something concrete. Not a vague guess.
He shrugged. "Even I can't say for sure. That's just the estimate. But—" he paused, his voice turning grim, "this isn't the first time she's hit her head. Although I don't see any lasting damage right now, too many more of these and she might not be so lucky."
My throat worked. Lucky as in to die?
"She needs rest." He added.
