The tech’s eyebrows pulled together.
His mouth opened slightly.
He leaned closer to the monitor.
My mother turned her head toward me.
“What?” she whispered.
I wanted to say nothing.
I wanted to say it was fine.
Instead, I squeezed her hand.
The tech froze the image at 10:07 AM.
He measured something.
Then he measured it again.
He changed settings on the machine.
He took another image.
He stopped breathing for a second.
I saw it in his shoulders.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
He did not answer.
That was when fear truly entered the room.
Not when my mother groaned in the kitchen.
Not when the doctor ordered imaging.
When the man trained to look inside bodies could not find a sentence to say.
He excused himself and stepped into the hallway.
Through the half-open door, I heard low voices.
Then another doctor came in.
This one was older.
He had silver at his temples and a calm face that looked like it had carried many families through bad news.
The tech pointed at the screen without speaking.
The doctor leaned in.
At first, his expression was professional.
Then it sharpened.
