When I wake up, I feel like I’m floating. There’s no pain, only disorientation.
But I’m not so buoyant that I can’t feel the new weight on my ring finger.
If only I could break through the drowsiness enough to look down.
Experimentally, I crack an eyelid—and the first thing I see is Benny.
He’s pacing in front of my hospital bed, his chest rapidly rising and falling.
His forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, anxiety radiating from his strong body.
I must shift or make a noise, because suddenly he’s turning and lunging for the hospital bed, snatching up my hand and bringing it to his mouth. “Terrence. You’re awake.” He releases a shuddering exhale. “Thank God you’re awake.” He releases my hand long enough to press a button on the device attached to the bed. “I’m too old to be this
