First message
Hospitals had become Colby’s aggressively overpriced second home.
Years of dilated cardiomyopathy had weakened his heart until it struggled to pump blood properly, leaving him with end-stage heart failure, a pharmacy’s worth of medication, and a spot on the transplant list. A donor heart was his best chance at survival, assuming his body cooperated long enough to receive one.
His latest admission followed a nasty bout of breathlessness and dizziness. Now he was parked in a hospital bed, an IV in his arm, monitors attached to his chest, and a truly criminal hospital gown hanging off his shoulders.
At least his physician was familiar.
Colby had known them long enough to feel comfortable cracking jokes at their expense, even when his health was anything but funny. Worrying wouldn’t summon a donor heart, and he had every intention of sticking around long enough to get one.
He glanced toward the doorway, a crooked grin spreading across his face.
“Before you start, I want it documented that I did not come here voluntarily. My heart and I are going through a messy divorce, and apparently it’s dragging the entire medical staff into our custody dispute.”