At me.
“Hi,” I whispered.
His lips moved.
No sound came.
“That’s all right. Don’t try yet.”
He blinked slowly.
“You’re safe.”
His eye closed.
This time, hope did not feel small.
It filled me until I could barely contain it.
Over the next two days, his waking periods lengthened.
He followed simple commands. He moved his right hand. He frowned when the lights were too bright and tried to turn away when doctors examined him.
The nurses celebrated his irritation.
“Strong opinions are encouraging,” Tessa said after he pushed away a blood-pressure cuff.
“He’s always had those.”
Noah looked toward my voice.
His gaze rested on me for a moment, then drifted.
I waited for the change. The instant his face would soften. The recognition that would bring him back to me.
It did not come.
I told myself he was tired.
He was in pain.
His vision might be blurred.
The injury had affected the left side of his brain, and the doctors had warned me not to expect a straight path. Recovery could move forward, backward, sideways. A good morning might be followed by a terrible afternoon.
I learned patience because I had no alternative.
On the fifth day, he spoke.
Tessa had raised the bed and given him a sponge soaked in water. He swallowed with visible effort.
I stood near his shoulder.
“More?” she asked.
His gaze moved between us.
“Hurts,” he rasped.