Crystal Thompson sat on the edge of the floral armchair, her fingers white-knuckled as she clutched the strap of her leather bag. The landline sat on the end table like a live explosive. It had been over thirty minutes since the nurse at the hospital had promised that the charge nurse would call with an update on Hunter’s condition.

"I'll have the charge nurse ring you as soon as she’s off her rounds," the woman had said, her voice carrying that practiced, professional sympathy that always made Crystal feel like she was being managed rather than helped.

Crystal checked the kitchen clock again. 11:30 AM. Hunter had been in that sterile room for ten days now, battling an infection that seemed determined to steal his mind before it took his body. As his power of attorney, she hadn't missed a single day of visiting, sitting by his bed even when he didn't recognize her. The delirium was the worst part - seeing his eyes dart around the room, watching him struggle against the restraints. The nurse had mentioned they might try unstrapping him today if his agitation subsided.

She reached for the handset, her thumb hovering over the buttons to dial the nurses' station. She pulled back at the last second. If she called now, she might tie up the line just as they were trying to reach her. Or worse, she would gain a reputation for being "difficult." Crystal had always believed in deferring to authority; these people were the experts, and she didn't want to interfere with Hunter's care by being a nuisance.

Suddenly, the phone let out a sharp, jarring ring.

Crystal lunged for it, nearly knocking over a ceramic coaster. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She took a breath, trying to sound composed and ready for whatever medical jargon they were about to throw at her.

"Hello? This is Crystal Thompson."

"Good morning! Am I speaking with the homeowner?" a bright, synthetic-sounding voice chirped. "I’m calling from SecureHome Systems to talk to you about our new - "

The hope that had been buoying Crystal’s chest collapsed into a hot, jagged spike of rage. "No," she snapped, her voice trembling. "Do not call this number again. I am waiting for an emergency call from a hospital!"

She slammed the receiver back into the cradle. The silence that followed was deafening. Almost immediately, the anger was replaced by a cold, sickening wave of guilt. What if the charge nurse had tried to call during those twenty seconds she was shouting at a telemarketer? What if the line had been busy at the exact moment Hunter’s status changed?

She stared at the phone, her anxiety escalating into a frantic internal rhythm. It had been over half an hour. Hunter was lying there, confused and alone, and she was sitting here, paralyzed by the fear of being rude to a system that seemed to have forgotten she existed. She was torn between the safety of waiting for authority to speak and the terrifying necessity of taking action herself.

Crystal checked the kitchen clock again. It was 2:45 pm. She had been sitting in the floral armchair for nearly four hours, her life reduced to the space between the silent landline and the ticking of the clock. Visiting hours at the hospital started at 3:00 pm sharp. For ten consecutive days, Crystal had been there the moment the doors opened, a constant, quiet fixture by Hunter’s side. Now, she was trapped by a choice that felt impossible: stay by the phone to receive the promised update, or drive to the hospital to see him herself.

She reached for the handset, her fingers trembling. She needed to know if the charge nurse had forgotten her, or if the news was so grave it required a formal delay. She began to dial, then stopped. She set the phone back into its cradle. If she tied up the line for even a minute, that might be the exact window the nurse chose to call. She picked it up again, her throat tightening. She imagined the nurses at the station, their eyes rolling as the "difficult" wife called yet again, demanding time they didn't have. She couldn't be that woman. She set the phone down a third time, paralyzed by the fear of institutional disapproval.

The silence of the living room was suddenly filled with the memory of Hunter three days ago. He had been strapped to the hospital bed, his wrists held fast by thick white restraints. His eyes had been wild, darting around the sterile room with a terrifying vacancy. He had begged her for pizza, his voice cracking with a child’s desperation, entirely unaware of the pre-surgery fast that made the request impossible. When she had leaned in to soothe him, he had looked right through her, screaming at a stranger he didn't recognize. The weight of being his power of attorney crashed over her then, just as it did now. She wasn't just his wife; she was the one responsible for the man who no longer knew who she was.

The clock ticked to 2:50 pm. If she left now, she could still make it for the start of visiting hours. Crystal grabbed her car keys from the end table, the metal cold against her palm. She marched toward the front door, her breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts. She reached out and placed her hand on the brass knob, ready to twist it and reclaim her place at his bedside.

But she stopped. Her hand remained frozen on the cold metal. If she left the house, she left the landline. The charge nurse had promised a call, and Crystal had always been a woman who respected the promise of authority. To leave now felt like a betrayal of the system she relied on to keep Hunter alive. She stood there, torn between her fifteen-year commitment to the man in the bed and her ingrained need to wait for permission. Slowly, her grip loosened. She released the doorknob, the keys jangling softly as her hand fell to her side. She couldn't leave the phone.

Crystal checked the kitchen clock again. It was 5:00 pm. The afternoon light had shifted, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floral armchair where she had spent the better part of her day. Six hours. She had sacrificed six hours of being by Hunter’s side, waiting for a phone call that never came. The charge nurse had promised an update, and Crystal, ever the woman who respected the hierarchy of the hospital, had believed her. Now, as the realization sank in that visiting hours were nearly over, the weight of those lost hours sat heavy in her chest. She had missed the window to sit with him, to hold his hand while he drifted through his delirium, all because she didn't want to be "difficult."

The silence of the living room felt like an indictment. She had stayed by the landline, paralyzed by the fear of missing the official word, while Hunter was likely staring at the sterile ceiling, alone and confused. The system she trusted had simply moved on without her. Crystal felt a dull ache in her throat - a mixture of grief for the time lost and a simmering resentment toward the professional sympathy that had kept her tethered to this room.

She stood up, her joints stiff from the long vigil. She wouldn't wait another minute. If she drove fast, she might still catch the final twenty minutes of the visiting block. She knelt on the carpet to tie her shoes, her fingers fumbling with the laces. She pulled the first knot tight, her mind already navigating the traffic to the hospital. As she finished the second shoe and reached for her bag, the sharp, jarring ring of the landline cut through the quiet.

Crystal froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm of hope and dread. This had to be it. She lunged for the end table, nearly knocking over the ceramic coaster in her haste. She grabbed the handset, her breath coming in shallow bursts.

"Hello? This is Crystal Thompson," she said, her voice trembling with the effort to remain composed.

There was a brief, static-filled pause on the other end. Then, a voice spoke. It wasn't the female charge nurse she had been expecting all day. It was a man, his tone deep and unfamiliar, carrying a weight of formal gravity that made her stomach drop.

"Am I speaking with Mrs. Thompson?" the man asked.

Crystal gripped the receiver so hard her knuckles turned white. The unexpected gender of the caller sent a fresh wave of uncertainty through her. This wasn't the follow-up she had been promised. "Yes," she managed to whisper, her mind racing through every terrifying possibility. "This is she. Who is this?"

The man didn't answer immediately, the silence on the line stretching out until it felt like the air had been sucked from the room. Crystal stood in the center of her living room, one shoe tied and the other forgotten, waiting for the words that would change everything.