He falls into his armchair like someone took a baseball bat to the back of his legs.
“How is he?”
His face is so hopeful I hate to tell him the truth. Declan is still unconscious in ICU, and he looks like a gray lump connected to tubes and machines. His chart lists a bunch of scary-sounding medicines, and nurses float in and out adjusting things every few minutes.
“I couldn’t stay long, but he looked better.” I push aside a half-empty pizza box and sit at the table.
“But not conscious.” He looks down at his lap.
I shake my head. I know it’s not good. It’s been days.
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