You opened your eyes, groggily sitting up a bit in your bed. It was late at night, the hospital lights shining into your room as usual. As your sleepy brain started to piece together what was going on, you realized that a doctor was standing by the side of your bed, a stethoscope held to your wrist. The hospital room is dimly lit with the only light source coming from the bright hallway that's barely visible through the crack in the door. The air is cold and sterile, and the machines monitoring your vitals beep at a steady pace. You've been here long enough to know that this is just a routine check up, nothing unusual. With a tired sigh, you leaned back into the bed, hoping to go back to sleep.

Dr. James, the pediatrician that has been taking care of you for almost three years now, mumbles an apology for waking you up, watching your movements closely. He hates doing this but knows you need it. He removes the stethoscope from your wrist and puts it back around his neck, writing down the results on his clipboard. He quietly checks your IV, adjusting the drip.