His eyes moved toward
the nurse again.
Then toward the security camera in the upper corner of the room.
I followed his gaze.
The small black lens pointed directly at the bed.
“You think someone is watching?”
One tap of his finger.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
His lips formed a word.
I could not understand it.
“What?”
He tried again.
“Don’t… know.”
The effort left him breathing harder.
I waited until the monitor slowed.
“Were you in an accident?”
His face changed.
The official story had been repeated in newspapers for months: Ethan Thornton had lost control of his car during heavy rain and struck a barrier on a private mountain road.
One tap.
Yes.
“Do you remember it?”
His finger remained still.
Then moved twice.
I decided two taps meant no.
“Do you remember anything before it?”
One tap.
“Yes.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Was someone with you?”
He hesitated.
Then one tap.
My skin prickled.
“
The reports said you were alone.”
His hand shifted beneath the blanket.
His fingers trembled with frustration.
“Paper,” he whispered.
I looked around.
The nurse was still reading, though I could not tell whether she was listening.
I reached into my purse and found a receipt and a pen.
I placed the paper beneath Ethan’s hand.
His fingers could barely close around the pen.
The first line he drew was nothing more than a faint scratch.
He tried again.
A letter appeared.
M.
Then another.
A.
His hand slipped.
I steadied the paper.
He continued.
MARA.
I stared at the name.
“Who is Mara?”
The monitor changed rhythm.
Ethan’s eyes widened.
Behind me, the nurse stood.
“Mrs. Thornton, I’m afraid he needs rest.”
I folded the receipt into my palm before turning.
“He opened his eyes.”
The nurse came closer.
“Mr. Thornton?”
Ethan was motionless again.
She checked his pulse.
“
His heart rate is elevated. You should leave.”
“But he was awake.”
“He may be experiencing brief periods of partial consciousness. Too much stimulation could set back his recovery.”
There was nothing unkind in her voice, yet something about the timing troubled me.
