She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. The second hand had been too loud anyway, clicking like it was keeping score, like it knew something she didn’t. She slid it into her coat pocket and pressed her wrist against her thigh, as if the absence could slow everything else down. Across the room, her father stared at the muted television. The captions flickered across the bottom of the screen, but he wasn’t reading them. He hadn’t really read anything in days. “Did you call your sister?” he asked, not looking at her. “She’s on her way.” That wasn’t true. Her sister had said she’d try. Try meant maybe. Maybe meant probably not. A nurse passed by, offering a small, practiced smile. The kind that said we are doing what we can and it won’t be enough at the same time. She rubbed her bare wrist again. Time felt wrong without the weight of it. Untethered. Like something had already slipped. When the doctor finally came, he spoke gently, carefully, as if words could bruise. She nodded in the right places. So did her father. They both understood before he finished speaking. Later, in the hallway, her father leaned against the wall and covered his face with his hands. “I should have—” he started. She almost reached for her watch then, almost checked how long it had been since she last said something kind, something patient, something enough. Instead, she stepped closer and took his hand. “It’s okay,” she said, though it wasn’t. Not really. But as he held on, like he might fall otherwise, she felt something loosen—not forgiveness she could name, not something clean or complete. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.