He hadn’t stirred for over twenty-four hours. Pete and I had both slept in the hospital room, a favour called in by Addy before leaving her shift. Family members weren’t usually allowed to stay, but because Nate was so young, and still sleeping, the hospital had made an exception. Just before seven a.m., Nate opened his eyes. The straitjacket had been removed long before, once the meds had knocked him out, and Nate began to shift in his bed, lifting his arms to touch his face. “Nate? Baby? It’s Mommy. I’m here. Daddy, too. We’re here for you, sweetie. Are you … are you feeling alright?” “Mommy? My throat. It hurts. I’m thir-thir-thirsty,” Nate croaked. Pete instantly left the room to get some ice chips. Addy had warned us that Nate’s throat might be dry when he woke up, less from the meds and more from the dryness of the hospital. Pete returned with a cup full of ice chips, and I helped feed them to Nate.
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