“She’s stabilizing,” the anesthesiologist reported.

I sank back into the dark, warm water of sleep.

When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU made me squint.

The ceiling tiles were white and patterned with tiny grey dots.

A plastic tube was taped to my nose, blowing cool oxygen into my nostrils.

The steady, rhythmic beep of my heart monitor filled the small room.

I tried to move my hand, but it felt like lead.

“Don’t try to sit up,” a voice said.

Ethan was sitting in a blue vinyl chair beside my bed.

His surgical cap was gone.

His dark hair was messy, sticking up in different directions where he had run his hands through it.

His scrubs were stained with dark circles of sweat and spots of dried blood.

“Ethan,” I croaked.

My throat felt like dry sandpaper.

He stood up immediately and poured water from a plastic pitcher into a cup.

He held the straw to my lips.

The cold water was the best thing I had ever tasted.

“Where are they?” I asked.