The deep medical lab is quiet, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the ventilator and the steady, rapid beeping of the cardiac monitor. It is a sound that has become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, a metronome counting down the seconds of my children’s survival.
Asher is asleep on the central examination table, his small chest rising and falling in a deep, exhausted rhythm. He is stripped to the waist, his skin pale and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. The physical toll of the remote Iowa prune is evident in the dark, bruised circles beneath his eyes and the slight tremor in his fingers, even in sleep. A faint, dried smear of blood crusts beneath his left nostril, a stark reminder of the neural load he just endured.
Margot stands beside him, adjusting the IV drip that pumps
