Page 111 of Anchor
Vos leaned back in the chair. His pulse didn’t change. “Good,” he said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ICU ROOM 12 – FOUR WEEKS LATER
Reid hadn’t changed. Twenty-nine days since the second burr hole. Stable vitals. No movement. Tuck and Trevor Foley came into the room with worn faces and quiet voices.
“Denver has neuro-specialists,” Tuck said. “Rehab. Diagnostics. Same meds, same machines. Just focused on recovery.”
“And if there is no recovery?” Claire asked.
Tuck’s tone dropped. “Then we give him peace.”
She saw it in his eyes. The decision was already made.
Tuck crouched in front of her. “I’m not giving up on him. But Denver is the place to give him the best chance of coming back.” He took her hands in his, eyes pleading. The same blue eyes as Reid’s. “I’d like you to agree, but… I have power of attorney, Claire. He’s going.”
She pulled a hand free and grasped Reid’s. “We’re going to Denver,” she said with watery eyes.
That night, the room was quieter than ever. No sedatives. No nurses. Just the hum of life-support.
Claire curled under the fleece blanket, palm pressed to her twelve-weeks-pregnant belly. She couldn’t process it, not without him. She whispered against his hand, “Tomorrow they’ll scan. If there’s nothing, they’ll move you. But I know you’re in there. You wait. You calculate. You fight.”
The machines clicked steadily.
NEURO IMAGING CENTER – 0630 HOURS
Reid was slid into the scanner. No sedatives. Foley’s eyes stayed on the monitor. Claire’s on Reid.
Forty minutes of images. Red. Yellow. Blank.
Then, in a dim side room, Trevor Foley placed one scan in front of her. A faint spark in the language center. Another flicker in the motor cortex.
“Reflexive?” Claire asked.
“Maybe,” Foley said. “But not a flatline.”
Tuck leaned forward. “That means we wait, in Denver.”
Claire stared at the scan. Reid was still quiet, but not gone.
Claire foldedthe blanket for the last time and set it across the chair beside Reid’s bed.
Four weeks. Two changes of clothes. Twenty-eight power bars. Forty-nine hours of sleep. Not one day away from him.
The door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss. Patrick Hedges entered first—Denver’s chief physician—tall, clean-cut, windbreaker zipped. Behind him was Seth Brady, Denver’s facility director and evac lead, clipboard in hand, gloves tucked at his belt.
“Hedges,” Claire said.
“You must be Claire.” He smiled warmly. “We’re ready for him.”
Seth scanned Reid’s vitals. “Pressure’s holding. Vent’s stable. We can make the flight.”
Claire stepped aside as they worked. She watched Seth check every line, power for every medical device, and the cranial rigs. Patrick stood silently at Reid’s side, immovable but also watching.
Tuck entered, transfer file in hand. “He’s yours.”
Seth took the clipboard. “Thanks, Boss.”
