No rest for the wicked

I grabbed two coffees from a vendor on the street corner and made my way out of the chill and into the sterile smell of the now familiar hospital.

"Rhea!" His voice was like a dream. Warm and soothing to the nerves. It made everything I worried about melt away and none of it mattered anymore. All those problems were little in comparison to seeing the smile on his face as I walked in.

"Good morning, Papa. Black coffee, no sugar and a splash of cream." He took the offered cup with a wide smile.

"You're my angel, Rhea. The sludge they have in here is no good." I sat on the edge of his bed and enjoyed the sound of that aged, gravelly voice.

It reminded me of Sunday mornings eating cereals and watching cartoons in a kitchen with faded green walls. The smell of coffee in grandma's french press and their old terrier yapping in the background.

"I always bring the best." I leaned over and kissed his forehead. His pale eyes were watery, and he squinted back at me. But the smile on his face was