I want to ask. My tongue is thick and feels like it weighs a ton. Nothing comes out.
A mask lowers over my face. Different from the ambulance. This one carries a sickly sweet scent. Kind of like strawberry and burned rubber.
“Breathe deep,” a voice says. “Count backward from ten.”
Ten.
Nine.
Eight—
Darkness.
I float.
No body. No pain.
Then—
Voices.
Far away, muffled like through water.
“He’s stable.”
“Good evacuation. Minimal midline shift.”
“He should do well.”
Hands move me. Machines beep.
I drift again.
Until—
Beeping. Relentless beeping.
The air is sharp. Antiseptic. Every breath tastes like plastic.
Something squeezes my hand. Gentle at first and then tighter.
My mother. I know her touch.
“Henry.” Her voice cracks. “Stay with us.”
Another hand covers mine. This time it’s my father.
“You’re strong, son. You’re not done yet.”
Not done.
I want to tell them I can hear their voices. That I’m trying. But my throat won’t work.
Tabitha’s face flickers in the dark. Her smile. Her fire. She doesn’t belong here in the black with me, but she comes anyway.
Her name burns on my tongue. Doesn’t make it out. But I cling to it. To her.
Don’t quit.
