Here it is. The original chapter I replaced with what I posted yesterday. I just wanted a different direction of that part of the story. Hope you like this as a standalone though.
Chapter – The Longest Drive
---
Victor had been driving for six hours when Lena said her back was bad.
They were on I5, heading south from Portland to the Redwoods. She'd wanted to see the trees. She'd said it was something she'd always wanted to do, before she couldn't make the drive anymore. Victor had cleared his calendar without asking why. He knew why. She was trying to find something that felt like her old self. He wasn't going to be the one to say no.
"It's just stiff," she said, shifting in the passenger seat. "I should have stretched more at the last stop."
He glanced at her. She was pale, but she was always pale these days. The circles under her eyes were deeper than they'd been a month ago. She'd lost weight again. He'd noticed, but he hadn't said anything. He never said anything. He just made her food and hoped she'd eat it.
"You want to stop? There's a rest area in twenty miles."
"No, I'm fine. Keep going."
He kept going. He'd learned not to push. When he pushed, she got quiet, and when she got quiet, she disappeared into herself, and it took days to bring her back.
The rain started an hour later. Heavy, the kind of Pacific Northwest rain that turned the highway into a river. He slowed down, leaned forward over the wheel, focused on the taillights ahead. The wipers slapped back and forth, struggling to keep the windshield clear. The headlights of oncoming traffic blurred into streaks of white.
She was quiet beside him. He was focused on the road, on the semi truck ahead that was throwing up a curtain of spray, on the way the lines on the highway disappeared and reappeared under the water. He didn't see her reach into her jacket pocket. He didn't see her palm the small orange bottle she'd transferred there that morning, when she thought he wasn't watching. She'd been carrying it for weeks, the leftover oxycodone from her surgery, the emergency supply she swore she only used when nothing else worked. He'd found it once, in her nightstand, and she'd promised she was careful. He'd believed her. He always believed her.
She waited until his eyes were on the road, then tipped two pills into her palm. She put them on her tongue, took a sip of water from the bottle in the cup holder, and swallowed. Her back was a hot wire of pain that ran from her lumbar down her left leg, and she just needed to take the edge off. That was all. She just needed to get through the next few hours. The pressure in her spine was a constant, grinding ache that had worn grooves into her soul. Three years of it. Three years of waking up stiff, of moving through the day like a woman carrying a boulder, of lying awake at night with her leg on fire.
She waited ten minutes. The pain didn't stop. It was getting worse, the kind of pain that made her breath shallow, her hands clench. She could feel the familiar spiral, the way the pain tightened her muscles, which made the pain worse, which tightened her muscles more. She needed to break the cycle. She just needed to break it.
She reached into her pocket again. Two more pills. She swallowed them the same way, silent, practiced. She'd gotten good at this. She'd gotten good at disappearing into herself, at making her struggles invisible, at carrying the weight without letting anyone see her buckle.
Victor glanced at her. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
He drove. The rain was coming down harder now, the wipers working double time. He leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. The truck ahead had pulled over at a rest area, and suddenly the road was empty, the rain the only thing filling the space.
She took two more. She didn't remember deciding to. Her hands were moving on their own, her body chasing relief that wouldn't come. She'd been in pain for so long. Three years of it, grinding her down, stealing her sleep, her strength, her sense of who she was. She just wanted it to stop. Just for a few hours. Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be still, to be quiet, to exist without the constant, gnawing pressure.
The pills were in her throat. She swallowed. The bottle went back into her pocket. Her hands were trembling now. She could feel something shifting in her chest, a heaviness that wasn't pain, something soft and dark pulling at the edges of her vision.
She leaned her head against the window. The rain was a grey blur. The vibration of the car hummed through her bones. She closed her eyes.
---
Victor didn't notice at first.
She was quiet, but she was always quiet. She'd been quiet for months, retreating into herself like an animal looking for somewhere to hide. He'd learned to give her space, to let her come back when she was ready. He'd learned that pushing only made her retreat further.
But after a while, he noticed her breathing. It was too slow. Too shallow. The rhythm of it was wrong, long pauses between breaths, then a gasp, then another pause. The gasps were getting farther apart. The pauses were getting longer.
"Lena?"
She didn't answer. Her head was against the window, her face turned away, her body slumped against the door in a way that didn't look like sleeping. It looked like something had let go.
"Lena."
He reached over and touched her shoulder. She slid. Her body was loose, boneless, tipping toward the center console. He caught her with one arm, pulled her back, and saw her face.
His heart stopped.
Her lips were blue grey. Her skin was the color of wet paper, translucent almost, the veins visible at her temples. Her eyes were half-open, the pupils pinpricks so small they were almost invisible. Her mouth was slack, her jaw hanging open.
"Lena!" He shook her. Nothing. He pulled the wheel hard, the tires skidding on wet pavement, the car fishtailing for a terrifying moment before he wrestled it onto the shoulder. He threw the car into park, didn't bother to turn off the engine.
He grabbed her face in both hands. Her skin was cold. Cold like she'd been sitting in the rain for hours, not like someone who'd been in a warm car with the heater on. He turned her face toward him, tilted her chin up.
"Lena, wake up! Wake up!"
She didn't move. Her chest…he put his hand on her sternum. He could feel a heartbeat, but it was faint, irregular, like a drummer who'd forgotten the rhythm. Her breathing, he put his ear to her mouth. It was there, but barely. A whisper of air. Then nothing. A pause that stretched too long, five seconds, ten seconds. Then another whisper, shallow and weak.
He scrambled for his phone in the center console, his hands slick with sweat, fumbling, almost dropping it. He dialed 911, put it on speaker, tossed it onto the dashboard.
"911, what's your address?"
"I'm on I5 southbound, somewhere south of Eugene. I don't know exactly, there was a rest area a few miles back. My friend, she overdosed. She took oxycodone. She's barely breathing."
"Okay, sir, I need you to stay calm. Is she conscious?"
"No. No, she's unconscious. She's grey. Her lips are blue. Her pulse is really weak."
"Is she breathing?"
He listened. Her chest rose. Fell. Rose. Fell. The pauses between were longer now. "Yes. Barely. It's really shallow. There are long pauses."
"I need you to prepare to do rescue breaths. Do you have naloxone?"
Victor's mind went blank. Then he remembered. The pharmacy always included it now, a nasal spray, automatic with every opioid prescription. He'd seen it in her bathroom cabinet. He'd seen it in her travel bag when she packed. She always carried it. Just in case, she'd said. Just in case someone needs it. Not her. Someone else.
He leaned across her, yanked open the small backpack. Her travel bag was there, unzipped. He dug through it, clothes, snacks, a book, a phone charger. His hand closed around a small white box. He pulled it out.
Naloxone nasal spray. One dose. The box was crumpled, the plastic seal unbroken.
"I have it. I have naloxone."
"Good. Administer it now. Remove the device from the box, place the nozzle in one nostril, and press the plunger firmly."
His hands were shaking. He tore the box open, the cardboard ripping, the plastic tube sliding out. He fumbled with the cap, dropped it, found it on the floor mat. He tilted her head back, her mouth slack, her eyes still half open, unseeing. He put the nozzle into her nostril, as far as it would go, and pressed the plunger.
The spray hissed. He watched her face. Nothing. No gasp. No cough. No change.
"It's done. She's not waking up."
"Okay. I need you to check her breathing again."
He put his ear to her mouth. Nothing. No whisper. No breath. Just silence. A silence that filled the car, that pressed against his eardrums.
"She's not breathing."
"I need you to start rescue breaths. Tilt her head back, lift her chin, and give two breaths. Watch for her chest to rise."
He tilted her head. Her jaw was slack, heavy. He lifted her chin, opened her airway. He pinched her nose, sealed his mouth over hers, her lips were cold, soft, lifeless and breathed. He watched her chest rise. He breathed again. Her chest rose again. He pulled back. Her chest fell. It didn't rise again on its own.
"Now check for a pulse."
He pressed her neck with two fingers, feeling for the carotid. Nothing. He pressed harder, moved his fingers to the other side, pressed again. Nothing. He pressed her wrist. Nothing. He pressed the inside of her elbow. Nothing.
"There's no pulse."
"I need you to start CPR. Is there space for you to do chest compressions where she is?"
Victor looked at the car. The passenger seat was reclined, but not flat. She was wedged against the door, her legs bent, her body slumped sideways. There wasn't room. He'd have to move her.
"I can get her out."
"If you can safely move her to a flat surface, do so. If not, do compressions where she is."
He threw open his door, ran around the front of the car, and opened her door. Rain poured in, soaking the seat, her jacket, his arms. He unbuckled her seatbelt, caught her as she slumped toward him, and pulled her out of the seat. Her body was heavy, heavier than he expected, dead weight that dragged at his arms. He laid her on the wet pavement beside the car, her back flat against the ground, her hair spreading in a puddle of rainwater, her face turned up to the grey sky.
He knelt beside her, his knees soaking through his jeans, the cold asphalt pressing into his shins. He put his phone on the ground beside her head, the speaker crackling.
"I need you to start chest compressions. Place the heel of your hand on the center of her chest, between the nipples. Put your other hand on top, lock your elbows, and push hard and fast. At least two inches deep. I'll count with you."
He found the spot. The heel of his hand pressed against her sternum. He could feel the bone under his palm, the slight give of the cartilage. He placed his other hand on top, interlaced his fingers. He locked his elbows, positioned his shoulders directly above her chest.
He pushed.
The first compression was tentative. He felt the sternum depress, felt the resistance, the tension. He let up. He pushed again, harder this time, committing to the depth. Two inches. He could feel the ribs bending, the cartilage compressing.
"One and two and three and four…”
He fell into the rhythm. Thirty compressions, then two breaths. Thirty compressions, then two breaths. The operator counted, a steady metronome, and Victor pushed. Each compression was a prayer. Each breath was a plea.
The rain was in his eyes, his mouth, his lungs. His arms were burning. His chest was burning. His hands were slipping on her wet skin. He repositioned and kept pushing.
He felt something give. A crack. Then another. The ribs,he was breaking her ribs. The sound of it was sharp, sickening, a snap that he felt through his hands and into his bones. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, she would die. If he stopped, she would be gone, and he would be alone in a rest area on I 5 with the rain and the phone and the terrible silence.
"One and two and three and four…”
He pushed and he pushed. He lost count of the cycles. He lost count of everything except the pressure, the rhythm, the way her body moved under his hands. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. He gave her his breath. He gave her the strength of his arms. He gave her everything he had.
"Come on," he said. "Come on, Lena. Come back. Come back."
"Two minutes. I need you to check for breathing and pulse."
He stopped. He put his ear to her mouth. Nothing. He pressed her neck. Nothing.
"No pulse. No breathing."
"Continue CPR."
He continued. His arms were shaking. His hands were shaking. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore. He pushed anyway.
---
The paramedics arrived eight minutes later. He didn't hear the sirens at first, didn't see the lights. He was on his sixth cycle, his arms leaden, his vision blurring with rain and tears, when he heard a voice behind him.
"Sir. Sir, we've got her."
Hands pulled him back. He fell backward onto the wet pavement, his arms dropping to his sides, his chest heaving. He sat there, his hands in his lap, and watched them work.
There were three of them, two women and a man, moving with practiced efficiency. One of them knelt beside Lena and took over compressions, her hands finding the spot, the rhythm, without hesitation. Another set up a bag valve mask, squeezing air into Lena's lungs with a steady hiss. The third, a woman with short grey hair and a calm voice, was attaching leads to Lena's chest, calling out orders.
"Get a line. Push naloxone."
They started an IV in her arm, taped it down. The woman with grey hair looked at the portable monitor they'd attached.
"She's in v fib. Charging."
Victor watched her pick up the defibrillator paddles, rub them together. She pressed them to Lena's chest.
"Clear."
Lena's body arched. The monitor flickered, a chaotic jumble of lines, then settled back into the same erratic pattern.
"Still in v fib. Charging again. Clear."
Another arch. Another flicker. The monitor showed a different pattern this time, still wrong, still chaotic, but different.
"We've got a rhythm. She's in v tach. Push amiodarone."
They pushed medication into the IV. Victor watched Lena's face. Her lips were still grey. Her skin was still the color of paper. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slack around the tube they'd inserted.
The monitor flickered again. The rhythm changed. For a moment, Victor thought he saw a normal pattern. Then it dissolved into chaos again.
"She's back in v fib. Charging. Clear."
The third shock. Lena's body jumped. The monitor flickered. The grey haired paramedic watched it, her jaw tight.
"Still v fib. Epinephrine. Charge again."
They pushed more medication. The paddles charged. Victor heard the whine of the machine, the click of the button.
"Clear."
Another shock. Another arch. The monitor flickered, settled, flickered.
Victor held his breath.
A line. A single, clean beat. Then another. A rhythm. Slow, but regular. A pulse.
"We've got her. She's back."
Victor let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He slumped forward, his head dropping to his knees. The rain was still falling. His hands were still shaking. His whole body was shaking.
The paramedics worked around him, stabilizing her, securing the tube, checking the IV. One of them came to stand beside him, a young man with a kind face.
"Sir. Are you okay?"
Victor looked up. He couldn't find words. He shook his head.
"Can you tell me what she took?"
"Oxycodone," he said. His voice was cracked, foreign. "From her surgery. She had maybe…I don't know, she had a bottle. She took some in the car. I didn't see how many."
The paramedic nodded. "We're going to take her to RiverBend in Eugene. It's about twenty minutes. You can ride in the ambulance."
Victor stood up. His legs were weak, his knees buckling. The paramedic caught his arm, steadied him.
"I've got you," he said. "Come on."
Victor walked to the ambulance. He climbed in, sat on the bench, and watched them load Lena onto the stretcher. They secured her, checked the monitors, started the transport. The siren started. The ambulance lurched forward.
He sat in the corner, his hands in his lap, and watched them work. They pushed more medications. They checked the tube. They watched the monitor like it was the only thing in the world.
The grey haired paramedic looked at him. "She's stable for now. She was down a while before we got there. Do you know how long?"
Victor shook his head. "I don't know. Eight minutes. Maybe ten. I lost track."
She nodded. Her face was careful, professional, but he saw something in her eyes. Something that told him what she wasn't saying.
He looked at Lena. Her face was still pale, still grey, still slack. Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of the ventilator. Her hands were limp at her sides.
He reached out and took her hand. It was cold. He held it anyway.
---
The emergency room at RiverBend was a chaos of lights and voices and hands.
Victor was pushed into a waiting room. He sat in a plastic chair, his clothes still wet, his hands still shaking. A nurse came and asked him questions. He answered as best he could. Oxycodone. He didn't know how many. Maybe six. Maybe more. He'd seen her take two, but she could have taken more before. She was down for eight to ten minutes before the paramedics arrived. He'd done CPR the whole time.
He called Danny. He didn't remember dialing. Danny answered on the second ring.
"Victor?"
"She overdosed." His voice was flat. He didn't recognize it. "On the way to the Redwoods. I found her in the car. She wasn't breathing. I did CPR. The paramedics brought her back, but…” He stopped. His voice cracked. "She was down for a long time. I don't know if she's going to be okay."
There was silence on the other end. Then: "Where are you?"
"Eugene. RiverBend Hospital. She's in the ER."
"I'm coming."
Victor hung up. He put his phone on the table beside him and he waited.
---
A doctor came to find him an hour later. She was a woman in her forties, her scrubs rumpled, her face tired but kind.
"Mr. Vasquez?"
"Her friend. Victor."
The doctor nodded. "I'm Dr. Okonkwo. Your friend is stable for now. We've intubated her, she's on a ventilator. Her heart is beating on its own, but she's not conscious. We're going to move her to the ICU."
Victor stood up. "When will she wake up?"
The doctor hesitated. That hesitation told him everything he needed to know.
"She arrested twice more in the ER," the doctor said. "We were able to bring her back, but she was without oxygen for an extended period before the paramedics arrived. It's too early to know the extent of the damage. We'll need to monitor her closely over the next few days."
"What does that mean? 'Damage'?"
The doctor looked at him. "It means we don't know if she'll wake up. And if she does, we don't know what she'll be like when she opens her eyes."
Victor sat down. He sat down because his legs wouldn't hold him anymore.
"Can I see her?"
The doctor nodded. "She's in the ICU. I'll have someone take you up."
---
She was in a bed surrounded by machines.
The ventilator breathed for her, a slow rhythm, the chest rising and falling with mechanical precision. The tube was taped to her mouth, a plastic line that disappeared between her lips. IV lines ran into both arms, bags of fluid hanging above the bed. Monitors beeped above her head, showing waveforms he didn't understand, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, a dozen other things he couldn't name.
Her face was swollen, her lips bruised from the tube, her skin still too pale. Her chest was bare except for the leads, and he could see the bruises spreading across her sternum, a purple and blue map of the compressions he'd done. The ribs. He'd broken her ribs.
He sat beside her. He took her hand. It was warm. He didn't know why that surprised him.
"Hey," he said. "I'm here."
She didn't respond. The ventilator breathed. The monitors beeped. He sat beside her and he didn't let go of her hand.
--
Danny arrived three hours later. He came into the room quietly, his face pale, his hands shaking with the tremor that never went away. He stood on the other side of the bed and looked at her.
"She's still out," Victor said.
"I know. They told me downstairs." Danny sat in the other chair. "What happened?"
Victor told him. The drive. The rain. The moment he looked over and saw her sliding out of her seat. The way her lips were already grey. The CPR on the pavement, the compressions, the breaths. The paramedics shocking her back three times in the rain. The ER, two more arrests.
"She was down for almost ten minutes before they got her back the first time," Victor said. "The doctor said she might have brain damage. She might not wake up at all."
Danny didn't say anything. He took her other hand and held it.
They sat like that through the night. The machines beeped. The ventilator breathed. And Lena did not wake up.
---
The first day passed in a blur of doctors and tests and waiting.
They did an EEG in the morning. Victor stood in the hallway while they attached the electrodes to her scalp, a cap of wires that made her look like something out of a science fiction movie. He watched through the window as the techs adjusted settings, as the machine printed out long sheets of paper covered in squiggles.
Danny stood beside him. Neither of them spoke.
When the EEG was done, Dr. Okonkwo came to find them. Her face was careful, neutral.
"The EEG shows some activity, but it's slow. Diffuse slowing, which means her brain is still recovering from the lack of oxygen. We're going to do an MRI this afternoon to look for any structural damage."
"What does 'diffuse slowing' mean?" Danny asked.
"It means her brain is working, but it's working slowly. Like a computer that's trying to boot up after a power outage. It doesn't tell us whether she'll wake up, or what she'll be like if she does."
Victor nodded. He didn't know what else to do.
They did the MRI in the afternoon. Victor sat in the waiting room, staring at the wall. Danny paced, his hands never still, his eyes fixed on the door.
When they were allowed back in, Lena looked the same. The same machines, the same tubes, the same pale face. The bruises on her chest were darker now, spreading into a deep purple that covered her sternum. Her eyes were closed. Her hands were still.
Victor sat beside her. He took her hand. He talked to her, because someone had told him that might help. He told her about the drive, about the Redwoods, about the trees she was supposed to see. He told her about the time she fell off his couch laughing at his dal. He told her about the first time he saw her climb, the way she moved up the wall like gravity was a suggestion.
She didn't respond. The ventilator breathed. The monitors beeped. The world went on without her.
---
On the second day, they tried to reduce her sedation.
Dr. Okonkwo explained it in the morning. "She's been on heavy sedation to allow her brain to rest. We're going to start weaning her off today, to see if she wakes up on her own."
Victor sat in the chair beside her bed. Danny was there too, on the other side. They watched the nurses adjust the drip, turn down the flow of medication.
Nothing happened.
They waited. An hour passed. Two hours. Her eyes didn't open. Her hands didn't move.
"She's still not responding," Dr. Okonkwo said. "We're going to keep her at this level for now. Sometimes it takes time for the sedation to clear. We'll try again tomorrow."
Victor nodded. He'd stopped hoping. He'd stopped doing anything except waiting.
That night, Danny broke.
They were sitting in the dark room, the monitors the only light, when Victor heard a sound. A small sound, a catch in Danny's breathing.
"Danny?"
Danny was crying. Silently, his shoulders shaking, his face in his hands. Victor had never seen him cry before. He'd seen him manic, depressed, psychotic, apologetic. He'd never seen him cry.
Victor stood up, walked around the bed, and sat in the chair beside Danny. He put his hand on Danny's shoulder.
"She's going to wake up," Victor said.
"You don't know that." Danny's voice was muffled, cracked.
"No. I don't. But she's fought before. She's fought harder than anyone I know. She's not done."
Danny lifted his head. His face was wet, his eyes red. "What if she is? What if she never wakes up? What if she wakes up and she's not…”He couldn't finish.
Victor didn't have an answer. He sat beside Danny, his hand on his shoulder, and let him cry.
When Danny was done, he wiped his face with his sleeve. He looked at Lena, still and pale in the bed.
"I can't lose her," he said. "I know I've been…I know I've put her through so much. But I can't lose her."
Victor nodded. "I know."
They sat in silence for a long time. Then Danny reached out and took Victor's hand. Victor let him.
"Thank you," Danny said. "For being here. For saving her."
Victor squeezed his hand. "She's not saved yet."
"She's here. That's something."
They sat like that, holding hands across the bed, two men who loved the same woman, waiting for her to come back.
---
On the third day, they tried again.
They reduced the sedation further. Victor watched the drip slow, watched the medication bag empty. He watched Lena's face.
Nothing.
They waited. The morning passed. The afternoon passed. Victor sat beside her, talking to her, telling her about the Redwoods, about the climbing gym, about the harness still on the wall. Danny read to her from her old climbing journals, the ones she'd kept when she was setting routes, her handwriting small and precise.
Still nothing.
Dr. Okonkwo came in at the end of the day. "She's still not responding. We're going to keep her at this level for another day. Sometimes it takes time."
Victor nodded. He was too tired to hope. He was too tired to do anything but sit and wait.
xi.
On the fourth day, she arrested again.
Victor was in the chair, his head against the wall, his eyes closed. Danny was in the bathroom, splashing water on his face. The monitors had been steady all day. The rhythm had been regular. The numbers had been good.
Then the alarm went off.
Victor's eyes snapped open. The monitor showed a flat line. The sound was a single, sustained tone, the one he'd heard in the rain, the one he'd heard in the ER. His body moved before his mind caught up.
"Lena!"
He was on his feet, his hand on her shoulder, shaking her. "Lena! Wake up!"
She didn't move. The flat line continued.
He hit the call button, once, twice, three times. He heard shouting in the hallway, running feet.
Danny came out of the bathroom, his face pale. "What's happening?"
"She's in arrest. She's…”
The door burst open. Dr. Okonkwo was there, two nurses behind her. They moved around him, pushing him aside, their voices sharp and focused.
"Pulse?"
"None. She's in asystole."
"Start CPR. Get the cart."
One of the nurses began compressions. Victor watched her hands press into Lena's chest, the same rhythm he'd used in the rain, the same desperate pressure. The nurse's arms were straight, her shoulders over Lena's chest, pushing two inches deep, letting up, pushing again.
Danny stood beside Victor. His hand found Victor's arm, gripping it hard. Victor didn't pull away.
"Epinephrine. Push."
They pushed medication into the IV. The monitor stayed flat.
"Continue CPR."
The compressions continued. Victor could hear the ribs again, the same sound he'd heard on the pavement. The nurse was sweating, her face red with exertion. Another nurse took over, her hands finding the rhythm without missing a beat.
The nurse stepped back.. The monitor had a flat line.
"Epinephrine again. Continue CPR."
Victor watched. He couldn't look away. Danny's hand was tight on his arm, almost painful. He didn't move.
The compressions continued. The rhythm was relentless, mechanical, the only thing keeping her blood moving. Victor counted in his head. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He'd done this. He'd done this for eight minutes in the rain. He'd broken her ribs. He'd given her his breath.
"Check rhythm."
The nurse paused. The monitor showed a line. A jagged, chaotic line.
"We've got v-fib. Charge."
The paddles charged. Victor heard the whine, the click.
"Clear."
Her body arched. The monitor flickered. The line changed, smoothed, became something almost regular.
"V tach. Push amiodarone."
They pushed the medication. The monitor flickered again. The line wavered, shifted, then settled into a rhythm. A normal rhythm. A pulse.
"We've got a sinus rhythm. She's back."
Victor let out a breath. Danny's hand loosened on his arm. They stood together, watching the doctors work, watching the monitors, watching Lena's chest rise and fall with the ventilator.
Dr. Okonkwo came to stand beside them. Her face was tired, her scrubs rumpled.
"She's back for now. But that was her third arrest. Each time, it gets harder to bring her back. We're going to increase her sedation again, let her brain rest. We'll try again in a few days."
Victor nodded. He didn't have words.
Danny spoke. "Is she going to make it?"
Dr. Okonkwo looked at him. Her face was honest. "I don't know. The next few days will tell us. If she doesn't wake up when we reduce the sedation again…” She stopped. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
She left. Victor and Danny stood beside the bed, looking at Lena. She looked the same. The same pale skin, the same tubes, the same bruises. The monitors were beeping again, a steady rhythm, the sound of a heart that was still fighting.
Victor reached out and took her hand. Danny took the other.
"I'm not leaving," Victor said. "I'm not leaving until you open your eyes."
Danny looked at him. There was something in his face, gratitude, maybe, or recognition. "Neither am I."
They sat down. They didn't talk. They just held her hands and waited.
---
The fifth day came and went.
Victor slept in the chair, his neck stiff, his back aching. Danny slept on a cot the nurses brought in, curled on his side, his face toward Lena. They ate hospital food. They drank bad coffee. They talked to her, read to her, told her stories.
They didn't talk about what would happen if she didn't wake up. They didn't talk about the future. They just existed in the small room, in the space between the beeps of the monitors, in the rhythm of the ventilator.
On the sixth day, Dr. Okonkwo came in with the EEG results.
"The EEG shows more activity than before. There's still some slowing, but it's improving. Her brain is healing. That's a good sign."
Victor looked at Lena. She looked the same. "When will she wake up?"
"I don't know. We can try reducing the sedation again tomorrow. But we need to be patient. Brain injuries take time to heal."
Victor nodded. He was learning to be patient. He was learning to wait.
---
On the seventh day, they reduced the sedation again.
Victor sat beside her, holding her hand. Danny sat on the other side, holding the other. The drip slowed. The medication bag emptied.
They waited.
An hour passed. Two hours. Three hours.
Nothing.
Victor talked to her. He told her about the Redwoods. He told her about the climbing harness he'd brought from the apartment, the one she'd left on the wall. He told her about the route she'd designed at the gym, the one Marcus had set, the one she'd never gotten to climb.
Danny read to her from the physics textbook. He read about entropy, about the second law of thermodynamics, about the way the universe moved toward disorder.
"You said once that I was your pocket of order," he said. "You said I was the energy outside your system. You have to come back. You have to come back so I can be that for you."
Victor watched her face. Nothing.
The afternoon passed. The light in the room shifted, turning from grey to gold to grey again. The nurses came and went. Dr. Okonkwo checked the monitors, adjusted the settings, left.
Victor was losing hope. He was losing the thread of it, the thing that had kept him going through seven days of waiting. He looked at Lena's face, at the bruises on her chest, at the tubes and wires that were keeping her alive, and he wondered if she was still in there. He wondered if she'd ever come back.
He was about to say something to Danny when he saw it.
A flicker. A movement beneath her eyelids.
He held his breath.
Her eyelids fluttered. Opened. Closed. Opened again.
She was looking at him.
---
It wasn't the awakening he'd imagined.
Her eyes were open, but they weren't focused. They were cloudy, unfocused, the pupils still too small. She looked at him, but she didn't see him. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, like she was looking at something far away.
"Lena," he said. His voice cracked. "Lena, can you hear me?"
She blinked. Her lips moved around the tube. No sound came out.
Danny was on his feet, leaning over the bed. "Lena. We're here. We're here."
She blinked again. Her hand moved, a small movement, her fingers twitching against Victor's palm. He squeezed her hand. She didn't squeeze back.
Dr. Okonkwo came in. She checked Lena's pupils, her responses, her vitals. She looked at Victor and Danny with something that might have been hope.
"She's waking up. It's going to be slow. Her brain has been through a lot. But she's coming back."
Victor sat down. He sat down because his legs wouldn't hold him. Danny was crying again, silently, tears running down his face.
They stayed beside her. They held her hands. They talked to her, told her she was safe, told her they weren't going anywhere.
She didn't respond. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't there. Not yet. But she was coming. Slowly, painfully, she was coming back.
---
The tube came out on the eighth day.
Lena was more awake now. Her eyes followed movement. She blinked when they talked to her. She squeezed Victor's hand when he asked her to.
But she didn't speak. She couldn't speak, her throat was raw from the tube, her voice gone. She communicated with her eyes, with small movements of her head.
The doctors said it would take time. The brain was healing. The body was healing. They had to be patient.
Victor was patient. He sat beside her, held her hand, told her about the Redwoods. He told her they'd go when she was better. They'd see the trees. They'd take the drive again, and this time, she wouldn't hide the pills.
Danny sat on the other side. He talked to her about physics, about the universe, about the small pockets of order they could create together. He didn't apologize. He didn't make promises. He just talked.
On the ninth day, she spoke.
It was a whisper, a rasp, barely audible. Victor leaned close to hear her.
"Sorry," she said.
He shook his head. "Don't."
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were clearer than before. Focused. She was looking at him, really looking.
"I scared you," she said.
He nodded. He didn't trust his voice.
She looked at Danny. Her hand moved, reaching for him. He took it.
"I'm here," Danny said. "I'm not going anywhere."
She nodded. A small movement, barely there.
She looked back at Victor. "The trees."
He smiled. It was the first time he'd smiled in nine days. "We'll go. When you're better. We'll see the trees."
She closed her eyes. Her breathing was slow, even. She was sleeping. But it was sleep, not coma. Real sleep. Healing sleep.
Victor sat back in his chair. He looked at Danny across the bed. Danny looked back. They didn't say anything. They didn't have to.
The machines beeped. The ventilator was gone. Lena was breathing on her own. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady. Her hand was warm in Victor's.
She was here. She was back.
And for now, that was enough.