“Can I see him?”
“Yes.”
They led me to a neurological observation room.
Noah lay beneath a thin hospital blanket. Adhesive leads crossed his chest. A pulse-oximeter sensor was wrapped around one finger. An IV line entered his arm.
No bandages.
No blood.
No broken bones.
He still looked impossibly fragile.
The nurse lowered the lights.
I sat and took his hand.
His fingers moved once.
Not enough to hold.
“Hey.”
My voice broke.
“I’m here.”
His eyes remained closed.
I pressed his knuckles to my mouth.
“You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to find words.”
The monitor beeped steadily beside him.
“I know you’re in there.”
Tears reached my face.
“And when you’re ready, I’ll still be here.”
The nurse gave me forty minutes before the unit closed for shift change.
I spent thirty-nine holding his hand.
At the yard, Caleb and Owen stopped working when I entered.
They saw the answer on my face.
“He’s alive,” I said. “Scans are stable.”
Caleb’s shoulders lowered.
“What is it?”
“Stress shutdown. His brain spent more than it had.”
