"Is he ... ?"

The voice drifts through the black fog around me. It sounds familiar, but I can't quite place where from. I can tell that they are upset about something, though.

"Stable, for now." A second voice - more confident than the first. Although I've heard this voice a lot recently, I don't think I know who they are.

"So, is he going to be alright?"

"It's too soon to tell. We can keep him alive, help him heal. But we won't know for sure until he wakes up."

"But he's going to wake up?" I can hear the desperation in her voice.

"We ... ." The second voice hesitates. I hear a deep breath, as if they are drawing strength from the air around them. "We don't know. The scanner showed significant swelling around the brain. We don't know how long he'd been like that. The surgeons did what they could to drain the meninges."

There is a saw-edge note of hysteria. "But he's going to wake up?"

"There is no guarantee."

"Can I ... ?"

"Yes. You can."

I feel pressure on my hand. Something pulls gently at it, lifting it by the fingers. The black fog parts momentarily. My world becomes defined by the space taken up by five fingers, a palm, a wrist. Something warm and soft grasps the limits of my world, holding it tight and close. Instinctively I react.

"I think he felt me." The despair has turned to wonder.

"It might just be a reflex reaction."

"No. He felt me. I know it." The pressure on my hand eases slightly. "Can I be alone with him for a minute."

"Of course."

I hear movement. I feel my hand move slightly, my arm following it. The first voice sounds close to my ear. "I'll stay here for as long as they'll let me."

I think I smile.