Chantel sat in the soft leather chair across from the doctor's polished oak desk, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The doctor's office was clean and modern, yet the fluorescent lights above seemed too bright, almost glaring. Medical certificates lined the pale blue walls, and the faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air. Chantel's heart thudded in her chest, and she found herself bouncing her knee nervously, trying not to let her anxiety overwhelm her.
The doctor, a composed woman in her early forties with neatly styled black hair and intelligent brown eyes, adjusted her glasses and looked up from the tablet in her hand. Chantel sat up straighter, clenching her jaw.
"Doctor," Chantel began, her voice trembling just slightly, "please… tell me the truth. Is Henry okay? Did the accident cause any damage to his body?"
She held her breath as she awaited the answer, her eyes locked onto the doctor's face with desperation and hope intertwined.
