"The only way you'll know is if somebody else from home turns up," I said, watching the twinge of tension in his eyes as he jostled the needle in the back of his hand. "It happens. People come and go."

I chewed at my bottom lip.

"I didn't save you. I just made a phone call," I admitted, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. I thought about Philip, about how if I'd maybe gotten there a few minutes earlier, he might've still been alive. But I didn't, and he wasn't.

I was about to say something more, when the door creaked open and a nurse hustled in, all bright smiles and her voice too bright and friendly as she went over what was probably a checklist of questions about his pain level and shit. She shoved her way over to the monitors by his bed, hooking on a new IV bag, checking the numbers, looking at his morphine drip. By the time she made it to the piss bag hanging on the side of the bed, I was on my feet and backing towards the door.

"Don't go anywhere," I murmured to him over her chattering, smirking as I slipped out into the hall.