“I don’t wanna wait til tomorrow,” he texted back with a shaky index finger. The middle-aged dad’s face scrunched up as deep furrows formed on his sweaty brow. Tim put the phone down on his hospital bed. He’d asked his adult son to call, but the young man messaged back,
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow, dad.”
There hadn’t been a real conversation between them in years, but now dad was slowly dying. Tim’s phone rang; it was his son, somehow sensing the gravity of the situation.
“Junior, I want to make up for the past, in whatever time we have.”
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Flash Fiction by David 
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