“Come on,” I whispered. “You’re all right. Take your time.”
One eye opened a fraction.
It was unfocused and dark with exhaustion.
My breath broke into a laugh that became a sob.
“There you are.”
His eye closed again.
The doctors told me not to read too much into it.
I read everything into it.
Chapter 3
REID
Noah opened his eye again six hours later.
This time, it remained open long enough for him to look toward the sound of my voice.
“Hey,” I said.
The word emerged rough after days of whispering.
He stared through me.
That did not matter. Not yet. His brain was injured. He was waking through pain, medication, and confusion. Recognition would come when the fog lifted.
“You’re in the hospital,” I told him. “You were hurt, but you’re safe.”
His brow tightened.
Tessa stood on the opposite side of the bed. “Noah, can you squeeze my hand?”
Nothing happened.
She repeated the instruction.
His fingers twitched.
“That’s good,” she said.
Good became a precious word. I collected every use of it.
Good pupil response.
Good oxygen levels.
Good movement.
Good tolerance after the ventilator was removed.
The breathing tube came out that evening. Noah coughed weakly and drifted back to sleep with an oxygen line beneath his nose.
I sat beside him and studied the rise of his chest.
