We didn’t think he’d make it through the night.
The hospital staff gently asked everyone to be quiet in the room. The old man lying there kept whispering one word over and over through dry, cracked lips: “Murphy… Murphy…” At first, we thought maybe Murphy was someone he loved—a son, a grandson, or perhaps an old friend from the military. Curious, I moved closer and spoke softly, “Who is Murphy?” His mouth barely moved, but I could hear him say clearly, “My good boy. I miss my good boy.” Suddenly, it hit me. Murphy wasn’t a person—he was a