Page 61 of Bitter Truths

His fingers move again. Deliberate. Intentional.

“Oh my god. CLARA! Someone get Clara!”

I’m on my feet, pressing the call button repeatedly while holding his hand. The movement was small, but it was there. Real.

Footsteps pound down the hallway. Clara bursts through the door first, eyes wild with hope and terror.

“What happened? Is he–”

“His fingers moved,” I say. “Twice. When I was talking to him.”

Clara drops into the chair on Winston’s other side, taking his free hand. “Win? Baby, can you hear me?”

She goes still, staring down at their joined hands. Then her breath catches.

“Oh my god, he’s... his fingers just... Winston! Baby, do it again, please do it again!”

She’s sobbing now, clutching his hand to her chest like a lifeline. “I felt it, I felt him squeeze my fingers! He knows I’m here!”

Tears stream down her face as she leans over him, pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, anywhere she can reach. “I need you to come back to me right now, Winston.”

Dr. Kelty arrives with two nurses, pushing past us to check Winston’s vitals, shine lights in his eyes, and test his reflexes. I stand back, bouncing on my toes, watching every movement for signs of change.

“His neurological responses are definitely improving,” Dr. Kelty says after what feels like hours of testing. “The finger movement is encouraging. We’ll run another EEG, but this could indicate he’s beginning to surface from the coma.”

“Could?” Clara’s voice goes up an octave. “What does that mean?”

“It means we wait,” he says. “These things happen gradually. But this is the best sign we’ve had since the accident.”

When the medical team leaves, Clara and I sit in charged silence. Both afraid to hope too much, both desperate for more.

“I need to call Ben and Matt,” Clara says, standing. “They went to grab dinner. And your parents–”

“I’ll get us a snack,” I offer. “Smoothie? You haven’t eaten anything today.”

She nods gratefully. “Mango if they have it, and one of those muffins, please.”

I squeeze her shoulder.

The smoothie place in the hospital lobby is crowded, the line moving slowly. I check my phone while waiting.

Thirteen minutes until their deadline.

I know what I saw. And no amount of pretty words can change that.

I dial Ezra’s number.

“Bianca.” I smile when I hear him say my name. “How are you? How’s Winston?”

“He’s doing a little better. His fingers moved earlier. Doctors think he might be starting to wake up.” I lean against the lobby wall, watching people stream past. “It’s the first real sign of progress since the accident.”

“That’s incredible news.” He sounds genuinely relieved. “And what about you?”

“Eager for him to wake up.” I pause, checking the time. “I decided not to go.”

He knows immediately what I mean. After I hung up so abruptly yesterday when their scents hit me, I called him back within the hour to explain the whole garden encounter—the confrontation, the address, their demand that I show up today.

“Hey, put me on speaker,” I hear Megan say in the background. “Is that Bianca?”