As it was, the best he could do was focus on squeezing his hands or flexing his feet when instructed. No matter how miserably he knew he’d failed, strangers’ voices praised him. Now and again he’d hear a voice he recognized. That was when he’d fight hardest to open his eyes. The effort always proved too much, but it wasn’t enough to take the fight out of him. Heneeded to know what had happened, needed to see the truth in the faces around him. Those faces wouldn’t lie to him.
Yet no matter how hard he fought against the pain that enveloped his brief battles to remain conscious, he continued to surface to darkness and descend into darkness.
So he listened.
And heard the same phrases over and over.
“Cervical involvement at C2 and C3.”
“Neurological impairment unknown.”
“Long-term prognosis undetermined.”
“Lucky to be alive.”
He was aware he lost blocks of time, but was sure that time had passed because the voices of his caregivers changed. Day and night ceased to exist. The hum of machines and the squeeze and flex commands from those voices became his only constant.
That was why it surprised him when he finally rose from the darkness and found the room blindingly bright. He opened his mouth and a very feminine sob escaped. More confused than ever, he closed his mouth, but the sobbing continued.
Not him, then.
He blinked slowly. When he forced his eyes open again, a woman with a penlight hovered over him. She lifted first one eyelid and then the other, flashing the light in his eyes. The beam pierced his skull as wave after wave of nausea rolled through him.
“Uh,” Ty managed to grunt in protest.
“Glad to hear you’re finally protesting all the poking and prodding,” she said on a smile. “Can you manage to squeeze my fingers, Tyson?”
Concentrating, he squeezed as hard as he could.
“That’s good. Better than yesterday.”
Her comment, couched in cheerful enthusiasm, didn’t fool him one bit. He was weak as an abandoned calf in mid-January. Hopefully his chances of survival were better.
He blanked out again. When he opened his eyes, the sobbing was softer, removed from him somehow, and two male faces loomed over him. Ty tried to raise his hand, but it seemed heavier than a concrete footer. Licking his lips, he tried to nod his chin. No go.
Will nothing move?
Machines beeped with mechanical urgency, reflecting his rising panic. The hushedwhoosh-pause,whoosh-pause of a ventilator made him want to choke on the tube down his throat. Eyes wide, he was ashamed at the tears that trailed down his temples as his panicked gaze sought those of his brothers’. He managed to raise the first finger on his right hand. A nurse rushed into the room.
She went to a monitor just outside his field of vision and murmured, “Tyson, honey, you have to calm down,” as she manipulated the machine and made the incessantbeep-beep-beeping stop. Fishing around in her pocket, she pulled something free.
Ty strained to see what she’d come up with. It wasn’t by sight that recognition hit but instead by the lethargic weight that stole over him and began to pull heavily on his consciousness.
Damn if she didn’t sedate me when I just wokeup.
He was frantic to stay awake, but it took only seconds for his vision to blur and his brothers to become optical twins—two of Cade, two of Eli.
The soft sound of feminine tears stopped.
“Rest, Ty.” Cade’s voice was rough, as if it hadn’t been used in ages.
“We’ll be here when you wake up,” Eli added, reaching down to grip Ty’s hand.
He’d have felt a whole lot better if he’d been able to grip that hand back. Then the pharmaceutical cocktail hit and took him down before he even registered the count.
TKO.
5