Chapter 4
Four
Henry
Sirens.
They slice through the dark, so loud they make my skull rattle. They’re louder than the pounding in my head, louder than the blood rushing past my ears. For a second, I think the barn’s on fire. Then the boots come. Heavy thuds on the planks rushing toward me.
“Head trauma.”
“Get a collar on him.”
“Airway’s open. He’s breathing.”
“BP stable. Let’s move.”
Hands on me. Fingers grip my jaw, tilt my head. Something hard and cold clamps against the back of my neck. The collar. Straps bite across my chest. I’m locked in.
I want to fight. To say I can get up on my own. But I can’t. My arms won’t rise. My legs are gone. The beam…
God, it hit hard. I remember the crack, the slam, the dog barking like the world was ending.
Then nothing.
The dog.
He must’ve run to my parents’ house. He knew. He always knows.
“Henry!”
That voice.
It’s my mother.
She’s close, too close.
“Please get back, ma’am.”
“Son. Hang on. Don’t you let go.”
My father’s voice. It’s lower, calmer.
He’s not begging me. He’s commanding me. As if I were still twelve years old and he’s giving me orders.
I try to obey.
I want to obey.
The gurney jerks beneath me. Pain flares white-hot. It spears through me like a jagged blade.
I groan.
At least I think I do.
Is it in my head?
Is it real?
Is any of this real?
Doors slam. An engine roars. The world lurches.
“Stay with us, Henry.” A flashlight sears my eyes. “Follow my voice. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
I try. My fingers twitch. They’re clumsy, weak, but it’s something.
“Good. That’s good.”
Cold air hisses across my face. Plastic presses tight against my mouth and nose. I smell something. Like rubber, maybe. Or alcohol. Or both.
I drag in a breath.
Straps cut into my arms as the gurney rocks with every bump in the road. The pain in my head pulses with the siren.
I close my eyes. Drift.
Ceiling tiles whip past overhead.
“Twenty-eight-year-old male. Blunt force trauma to the head. Lost consciousness at the scene.”
“Pupils sluggish but reactive.”
“Possible skull fracture. BP’s holding.”
Cold spreads through my arm. IV fluids, rushing in. A burn at the crook of my elbow. Machines beep. Voices overlap.
“CT, now.”
“Get neuro down here.”
“Pressure’s climbing. Let’s move.”
Hands everywhere. A sharp sting in my scalp. Someone shaving hair. Staples? No, not yet. Just pressure to slow the bleeding.
Through the curtain, I hear her again.
My mother. Crying. Choking on his name.
Except it’s my name.
“He’s strong.” My father’s voice.
The table slides me into a tunnel. It hums, clicks, whirs. The pain is too sharp, like hundreds of knives stabbing me.
“Hold still,” someone says.
As if I could move. As if I’m anything more than dead weight.
The table slides me back out. The room tilts.
Then nothing.
Until—
“Confirmed epidural hematoma.”
“Temporal bone fracture.”
“Call the OR.”
Epidural. Hematoma. Words I’ve heard before.
Blood between the skull and the brain. Pressure building.
I know what that means.
Surgery.
Faces. Masks. Bright lights.
Someone in green scrubs and a mask leans over me. “Mr. Simpson, we’re going to take good care of you. We need to relieve the pressure on your brain. You’ll be fine.”
Fine.
Will I?
I want to ask. My tongue is thick and feels like it weighs a ton. Nothing comes out.
A mask lowers over my face. Different from the ambulance. This one carries a sickly sweet scent. Kind of like strawberry and burned rubber.
“Breathe deep,” a voice says. “Count backward from ten.”
Ten.
Nine.
Eight—
Darkness.
I float.
No body. No pain.
Then—
Voices.
Far away, muffled like through water.
“He’s stable.”
“Good evacuation. Minimal midline shift.”
“He should do well.”
Hands move me. Machines beep.
I drift again.
Until—
Beeping. Relentless beeping.
The air is sharp. Antiseptic. Every breath tastes like plastic.
Something squeezes my hand. Gentle at first and then tighter.
My mother. I know her touch.
“Henry.” Her voice cracks. “Stay with us.”
Another hand covers mine. This time it’s my father.
“You’re strong, son. You’re not done yet.”
Not done.
I want to tell them I can hear their voices. That I’m trying. But my throat won’t work.
Tabitha’s face flickers in the dark. Her smile. Her fire. She doesn’t belong here in the black with me, but she comes anyway.
Her name burns on my tongue. Doesn’t make it out. But I cling to it. To her.
Don’t quit.
Time slips.
Nurses murmur, machines hum, doors swish. Every sound blurs into the next.
A hand touches my forehead. My mother again. “He’s warm. That’s good.”
“He’s going to be okay,” my father says.
But his voice is strained, as if he’s not sure he believes what he’s saying.
Light.
It creeps in. My eyelids feel glued shut. I fight them open anyway.
White ceiling. A blur. Machines. Tubes. Beeping steady beside me.
Shapes come into focus. My mother. Eyes swollen, cheeks wet, but smiling through it. She’s right there, holding my hand like she’ll never let go.
My father on the other side. Relief softens his face, just for a second.
“You’re awake,” my mother whispers.
I swallow, throat raw, but the word scrapes out anyway. “Mom.”
Her hand trembles. She leans closer, kisses my forehead.
“Good boy.” My father. “I told you not to let go.”
I let out a shaky breath.
I didn’t. I obeyed.
I’m still here.