Dr. Whitcomb sat beside me.
“The argument may have contributed to overload. So may the previous week of appointments, financial decisions, the article, fear about long-term decline, poor sleep, and the return of a family member associated with earlier trauma.”
“So stress did this.”
“Possibly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a brain with limited reserve may spend all available energy trying to process threat. Language, initiation, attention, and voluntary movement can become profoundly impaired even without a new structural injury.”
“He looked catatonic.”
“He may be experiencing a profound stress response that has temporarily impaired his speech, initiation, and movement. We need imaging and neurological observation before we settle on that explanation.”
“Can it take his memory again?”
She did not lie.
“Any severe neurological event can affect memory. Nothing you described confirms that has happened.”
I pressed my palms to my eyes.
“He said the money was for when he forgot me.”
Dr. Whitcomb was silent.
“I told him we would not live in fear of that.”
“That was reasonable.”
“He doesn’t believe me.”
“He may believe you and still be afraid.”
A doctor appeared at the doors and called her name.
She stood.
“I’ll find you when we know more.”
“Can I see him?”
“As soon as they settle him.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Reid, calling the ambulance was the right decision.”
She left before I could explain that doing one thing right did not erase a night of doubt.
An hour later, she returned with Dr. Venn.
His presence transported me instantly to the original hospital stay. The same composed voice. The same direct gaze.
“The scans are stable,” he said.
I forgot to breathe.
