His hand was frail and weak as he reached out to call the nurse. The webbing between his fingers was scabbed and ripped as he yearned for the button. His decrepit veins popped out of his hand as if they were trying to escape. Wrinkled and old as if it were jerky, left out to hang in the sun for years. Little white hairs sprout from the hand, lying too weak to have any depth. Several scars are scattered across it, long gashes that seem to cut through the grain like an intentional design.

Nails, brittle and white, as if they were stale. Peeling with dark purple and black bruises underneath the cuticle. Skin shredded from constant nail biting and ripping of hangnails over the years. Several IV bruises reside just below the hand, never having healed from previous hospital trips, leaving his hand with a permanent tremble so violent that he can’t even hold a glass of water without shaking. He struggles to reach for the button, straining so hard he almost falls out of the bed. 

As the plight continues, he begins to develop an animosity for the nurse who decided to put the button so far out of reach. As he finally presses the button, the palms of  calloused hands sigh. He did it, and it brought him comfort.