Maya woke to a world beginning to regain its color. Faint chromatic halos surrounded the overhead lights—not the vibrant synesthetic vision she was accustomed to, but a promising sign of recovery. The neurologist had been right; the disruption appeared temporary.
A nurse entered, her footsteps creating small bursts of yellow-green in Maya's peripheral vision. Definitely improving.
"James Harlow," Maya signed immediately. "How is he?"
The nurse looked uncertain, then gestured for Maya to wait as she retrieved a tablet from the bedside table. Maya accepted it with shaky hands, mentally cursing the hospital's lack of an ASL interpreter. She typed quickly.
James Harlow. Room number? Condition?
The nurse read and nodded, typing back: Room 743. Stable. Hearing affected but doctors say it is
