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43 hours. It has been 43 hours since I last slept. Exhaustion is seeping in, I can feel it overwhelming my body, yet I’m unable to sleep. Slumped over in a chair with my immediate family surrounding me in silence, we sit in plastic folding chairs waiting for an update. My little brother’s condition is completely unknown to us, yet the only thing that separates us from him is this thin wall covered in peeling wallpaper with a faded purple flower design on it and two large doors which have been freshly painted a crisp, bright red. Thoughts race through my mind as fast as they can in my sleep deprived state, and I continue to gaze around the bland room. I notice the secretaries in the office situated snugly in the corner of the room seem to be laughing and gossiping. Two middle aged ladies exchange banter and then both squeal in a seemingly endless cycle. I can’t believe it. People are sitting a mere 10 feet away from them and they’re laughing and chatting like two teenagers after school. Despite feeling agitated by the nurses and the severity of the situation, I start to doze off, my head dropping down onto my chest. Eyelids drooping, I see the dirty black runners I strapped on before rushing to the hospital and the black and white chessboard pattern of the floors. I hear the squeaking of door hinges desperately in need of lubrication and I see a doctor in full scrubs emerge. He peels off his surgical mask from left to right, revealing a hardened face. His face was covered in brown stubble which matched his short, dark brown hair. His small eyes revealed little to nothing, he showed neither happiness nor sympathy. Without seeing a sign of immediate success, my eyes dart over to my mother who covers her mouth and nose with her hands, eyes welling up instantaneously. The agonizing silence was broken by the doctor who said in a completely monotone voice, “French family?”