When you’ve been told for a week that your son is going to die “any time now, maybe even within the hour,” and then he continues to hold on, you start to wonder if the doctors are right. You look for any miniscule shred of evidence that they really don’t know what they’re talking about. Every flinch, every eyelash flutter, every hand squeeze becomes a flicker of hope.
“Krissy, it’s time.”
