Page 62 of Savage Reckoning

“Ethan? Can you hear me?” I squeeze his fingers between mine. “If you can hear me…”

“There. Again. Definitely.” The nurse grins. “He moved.”

I nod. His fingers are gripping mine, not hard, but…the pressure is not in my imagination, not wishful thinking. Just briefly, as though the effort is too much, and maybe it is. His hand goes limp again.

But it was enough. It was a start.

“Should I call Mrs Savage?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. But soon. When we’re sure.”

I make the call at eight the next morning. Cristina is here within minutes, a still sleeping toddler, Sebastien, in her arms. “Is he awake? What’s happening?”

“No, not awake. But… stirring. We think.” I shift to let her have the chair closest to the bed where I’ve been stationed for most of the night. “We both detected signs of improvement a few hours ago. He’s been sleeping since then, but he may respond to your voice. Or the baby’s…”

She nods and reaches for her husband’s hand. “Ethan? I’m back. Seb’s here, too. He needs his daddy. And I need you, too. Please, if you can hear me…”

The hand in hers remains limp. Cristina squeezes his fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Still nothing, and the baby is becoming restless. Maybe he’s hungry. I offer to take him, but Cristina shakes her head.

“Perhaps if you could find him something to eat. Some cereals, maybe? No milk.”

“I’ve got just the thing.”

I slip back into my cottage to rustle up a bowl of something chocolatey and bring it back to the clinic. By now, Sebastien is wide awake and crying loudly.

Cristina apologises for the din. “We’ve probably woken everyone up…”

“There’s only Magda, and I doubt if she’ll mind.”

Sebastien brightens up immediately when he catches sight of the bowl. He is content to sit on my lap, crunching happily while Cristina continues to chat to Ethan.

“He did it again.”

I’m alert at once. “Did what?”

“He moved. His middle finger jerked. I saw it. There. Again.”

This time we’re both watching, and the movement is unmistakeable. The finger lifts, then lowers again.

“It could be an involuntary muscle contraction,” I feel compelled to point out.

“No. I’m sure it isn’t. Ethan, can you do that again?”

Long moments tick by. We wait. Even Sebastien ceases guzzling. Then, slowly, deliberately, the finger moves again. Then once more.

Tears stream down Cristina’s face. “He’s back. He’s really back.”

I’m inclined to agree. Or, at least, very nearly. “I need to talk to the consultant.”

“Yes. Yes, call him. Get him to come here, whatever it costs.” She’s clinging to her husband’s hand as though her strength of will alone is all that’s needed to anchor him in the here and now, with us. Perhaps it is.

Magda arrives in the doorway, attracted by all the commotion. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Do you mind helping Seb with his breakfast? I need to make a call.”

I leave Magda beside the bed while I rush to my office. Mr Renny is as delighted as I am at the apparent progress and agrees to make the house call. We’re both of the mind that it would be counterproductive to try to move Ethan back to the hospital since he’s clearly doing so much better here at home. I make arrangements for the helicopter to pick the consultant up, then return to the patient.

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