Visiting Hours || Sike
Mike walked down the white, sterile hallway, keeping an eye on the signs as he tried to navigate his way around Lima's main hospital. Sam's mom had finally shoo'd him out of the hospital so he could catch up on sleep and shower. Of course, coming home did bring on a whole new barrage of lecturing from his parents who'd been worried about him despite his earlier calls reassuring them that he was okay and just looking after a friend. Once everything had been sorted and he was fed and well-rested, he'd made his way back to the hospital. Along with a few provisions to help keep Sam sane. After his own hospital stay, Mike knew how unnaturally boring it was to sit in an uncomfortable bed watching soap operas all afternoon. Mike was a bro and he was gong to help a bro out.
Smiling at the nurse who'd passed by, Mike ducked into Sam's room and rapped his knuckles against the door. "Hey Sam." He greeted, trying to maintain a cheerful demeanor. It wasn't easy, seeing his friend like this was hard. Sam had all these tubes and wires sticking out of him and for some reason people always looked so much smaller when they were in a hospital bed. Which was weird, Sam was broader than he was, but even he wasn't an exception to this rule. It sucked, but everything about the situation sucked. Finding Sam passed out on the floor sucked, learning that he'd been having problems for a while gutted him, realizing that he'd been so focused on his own problems he overlooked one of his best friends when he needed him most was the worst.
Grabbing a chair by the back, he dragged it over to the side of the bed and sat down. "So, I know how much the hospital is lacking in true entertainment so…" He swung the backpack he was wearing down into his lap and dug around for a moment before pulling out his iPad. "I figured out how to get some decent wifi going in here." He said placing the tablet on Sam's overbid table. "Netflix was the only thing to keep me sane last winter. Figured you'd appreciate it too and all you know." He explained, still fiddling with the things on the table instead of actually looking at his friend. Guilt always made eye contact a little more difficult.