Fourteen freaking hours in the hell that was the interior of a jet plane. He tried to read, listen to music, watch a film. Nothing. He could see nothing but her lying in a hospital bed, tubes and technology running from her, surrounding her with their manufactured sterility. She needed to be touched. He needed to touch her. Make sure she was warm, well, alive.
A nagging weight lodged in the pit of his stomach. No food, no drink, just her. She was the cure.
He slid the sunshade up. The first rays of light sliced across the horizon as they chased the day at thirty six thousand feet. He could scarcely make out the scallop of cumulus below as they drifted by. The world went on, not caring a thing for the concerns of man. His world was suspended like an insect in amber. The rest of humanity could look in at him, but he was paralyzed to act, to move, to breathe.