The first thing Emily Callahan heard after twelve days of darkness was her son’s voice. Not her husband’s. Not a doctor’s. Not the steady beep of machines or the shuffle of nurses in the hallway. Her son. “Mom… if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Please.” She was buried somewhere deep inside herself — aware, in the terrible way of coma awareness, of sound and pressure and the smell of antiseptic, but unable to respond, unable to open her eyes, unable to do anything more than exist in the narrow space between consciousness and the dark. His hand was...
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