He woke up on the third day.
She was there when it happened—she'd been there most of the time, going home to sleep in three-hour increments and coming back, and Ryan had taken Free for walks without being asked, and Clara had covered the shop without comment, and the world had somehow kept moving while she sat in the chair beside bed seven in the ICU and waited.
She was reading when his hand shifted.
Just that—a small, involuntary movement under hers. Then his fingers pressed back. Then his eyelids moved.
She set her book down.
His eyes opened. Dark brown, still unfocused, scanning the ceiling and then the walls and then finding her. The confusion on his face reorganized itself slowly—where am I, how long, why is—
He looked at her.
His mouth moved.
"You're still here," he said. Bar
