A dry, raspy sound came from his throat, like autumn leaves scraping against pavement.

He was trying to speak, but his throat was too parched.

I grabbed the small cup of water and a cotton swab from the bedside table, my hands shaking so hard I spilled some on the wood.

I gently moistened his dry, cracked lips with the damp swab.

“Take your time,” I murmured, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “You’re safe.”

His eyes didn’t open, but his chest rose with a deep, shaky breath.

His lips moved again, forming silent words before any sound actually came out.

“Not…” he whispered.

The word was so faint I almost missed it over the sound of the wind rattling the window glass.

“Not what, Ethan?” I asked, leaning closer.

“Not… an accident,” he breathed.

The effort seemed to drain him, and his grip on my hand loosened slightly as his head fell back against the pillow.

But his eyes were still moving rapidly beneath his closed lids, his brain fighting through the remaining fog of the drugs.