WriteThisWay

The sick man lay in bed, unable to move. His loved ones were all around him, looking troubled, and with a sort of resigned sorrow in their eyes that signified what would happen next. He had been battling his illness for hours, days, months now, and now he seemed as though the battle was reaching an end. His wife clutched his hand, trying to look strong for him. His children were huddled around the bed, whispering words of love, and two elderly people, whom I could only assume were his parents, were standing behind him, the woman stroking his head, the man looking as though he was trying to swallow a lump in his throat. I dialed in his code o