“Do you want me here?”
He did not answer.
I waited.
His right hand moved across the blanket.
I thought he was searching for the call button.
Then his fingers opened.
Toward me.
I placed my hand in his.
His grip closed weakly.
“It hurt,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate this.”
“You’re allowed.”
“I hate everyone watching.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“Don’t say I did well.”
“All right.”
“Don’t say tomorrow will be easier.”
“I won’t.”
His fingers tightened.
“Just stay.”
“I’m here.”
He kept hold of me until the medication took effect.
When sleep came, his hand relaxed but did not fall away.
I remained beside him.
At some point, I drifted off with my head against the wall.
A machine chimed.
I woke violently, heart racing.
A nurse stood beside the infusion pump.
