The walls of St. Matthews Children’s Hospital were decorated with cartoon murals and pastel colors, but none of it could hide the ache that lingered inside those rooms. Room 308 was no different except for the silence. The kind of silence that only exists where hope has nearly run out.
Dr. Alan Prescott stood at the foot of the hospital bed, his shoulders slumped, eyes red behind his glasses. He was one of the best pediatric oncologists in the country. But this this was the case that had broken him.
In the bed lay Leo, his eight-year-old son. Pale. Bald. Too weak to lift his head. Acute myeloid leukemia. Chemotherapy had failed. Experimental treatments had failed. Prayers had been whispered in every language by strangers and friends alike. But Leo was slipping away. Alan looked at the monitor’s slow rhythm, then at his son’s fragile chest rising and falling like a paper-thin wave, and he wept.
Then came a soft knock at the door. Alan turned, expecting a nurse. But it wasn’t. A young Black boy, no older than ten, stood there. His jeans were too short. His shirt was a little worn. But his deep brown eyes looked older than they should have been……..Read Full Story Here……………………….
