Page 5

Dylan

Present Day

I clawed upward through a heavy fog, thick and stubborn.

My body felt wrong, heavy and distant, but something real anchored me: soft cotton sheets cradling my back, the steady pressure of a hand wrapped around mine, warm and sure.

The air held an antiseptic bite, but underneath lingered something sweeter—lavender mixed with a warmth reminiscent of her skin.

A gentle hum emanated from an air vent. Beeps pulsed nearby, rhythmic, steady.

Monitors? Hospital? A light snore, gentle and familiar, brushed the edges of my awareness.

I didn’t know where I was. Didn’t know what had happened. But I knew this: someone I loved was here.

I fought to open my eyes. Light stabbed at me, a brutal flash, but I squinted through it, blinking until the world steadied into muted whites and soft beiges, a private hospital room. Machines flanked the bed, monitors blinked like impatient fireflies. And her.

Curled awkwardly on a cot beside me, her dark hair spilling over the thin pillow, her knees drawn up like she was bracing against the world. Jennifer. I drank in the sight of her, everything in me aching toward her. Mine —a truth carved deeper than any memory. No anger, no weight—just her.

My hand twitched, clumsy and slow, but I squeezed hers. The effort sent a dull ache up my arm, but I didn’t care. My throat scraped as I forced out, “Jennifer...”

Her head jerked up, startled. For a heartbeat, her eyes were wide, dazed with sleep—then she lurched to my side, her cot screeching across the floor. Her grip steadied me, fierce yet trembling slightly. Tears flooded her eyes, breaking free before she could blink them back. “You’re awake.”

Don’t cry. The sight twisted my insides. I wanted to tell her I was okay, she didn’t have to cry anymore, but the words snagged in my raw throat.

“You’re here,” I rasped, my voice thin and broken. “Thought maybe I’d dreamed you.”

She let out a choked laugh, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath. “I’m here. Of course I am. After you came to find me...”

I frowned, confusion pricking my dazed mind. “Find you?” The words felt foreign. “Where were you?”

Surprise widened her eyes, but she masked it quickly. I felt it anyway—a subtle shift in the air, an uneasiness that didn’t match the comfort of her touch. What did I forget? I held her hand tighter. Her voice alone made me want to stay awake forever.

The monitors picked up my quickened pulse, beeping faster. A woman in scrubs appeared in my blurred vision—Bethany, her name tag read. “Mr. DeVoss?” she said, her voice calm, practiced. “Welcome back. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

I wanted to answer, maybe thank her, but I couldn’t draw enough breath. Instead, I squeezed Jennifer’s hand again. As long as she’s here, I’m good.

Bethany spoke into a wall intercom. “Room317 is responsive. Requesting neurological consult and attending physician evaluation.”

I fought the fatigue, my eyes locked on Jennifer’s, her tears making me wish I could reassure her. Footsteps echoed. Doors swung open. Two white coats appeared—faces blurred, voices low and measured. One leaned close, a penlight flashing briefly in my vision.

The man’s voice was professional and even. “Can you tell me your name?”

I swallowed against the dryness, the effort monumental. “Dylan DeVoss,” I croaked.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

I glanced at the beige walls, the monitors, Jennifer’s face hovering over mine. “Hospital...?”

“Good,” he murmured, scribbling something. “Do you know what year it is?”

I hesitated, grasping for something solid in the mist. “Twenty... eighteen?” I guessed, although it didn’t feel right. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Jennifer’s flinch, quick and unguarded. My stomach twisted. Wrong. I’d gotten it wrong.

“Do you recognize anyone in this room?”

“Jennifer,” I said hoarsely, holding her gaze. She sniffed and nodded.

The second doctor checked my chest, muttering snippets I barely caught: “Breathing’s steady.” “BP holding.” “He’s alert, but time’s fuzzy.” Their words didn’t matter. All that mattered was Jennifer’s hand, still tangled warmly in mine.

She gently brushed my hair back, her touch skimming softly across my temple, igniting warmth through the haze. I wanted to pull her closer, but even that felt beyond me. The doctors murmured about “rest” and “follow-up scans,” their voices fading as they left, the door clicking shut.

The room fell quiet, just the monitors’ steady beeps and Jennifer’s soft breathing. I swallowed, fighting to force out the question clawing at my chest. My voice was barely a whisper. “Where’s your ring?”

She gasped, her hand pausing mid-stroke. I remembered the night I’d promised her forever under a pink dusk, with the waves crashing against the sand. She’d said the ring was perfect and she’d never take it off. But her hand was bare.

I searched her face, my heart thudding wildly, as I waited for her to answer.