I swallowed.
The hallway noises seemed suddenly far away.
“That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the woman in the footage is Elena?”
Caleb looked at the granola bar as if remembering it existed, then shoved it into his coat pocket unopened.
“I think if Elena is alive, everything Vincent survived was built on a lie.”
“And if she isn’t?”
“Then someone knows exactly which ghost to use against him.”
The next morning, Vincent surprised everyone by asking for Dr. Imani, Caleb, and me in the room at the same time.
He was stronger, though still pale. The uninjured side of his face held the same quiet severity, but his eyes seemed clearer. On the bedside table lay a single black glove.
Only one.
His right hand was bare.
Caleb noticed first.
His expression changed, then carefully changed back.
Dr. Imani entered with her usual calm. “Mr. Mercer.”
“Doctor.”
“I hear you insisted on a conversation before breakfast.”
“I dislike hospital schedules.”
“You dislike most things.”
“That too.”
She checked his chart. “Make it brief.”
Vincent looked at me.
Then at his bare hand.
I understood before he spoke.
“You want to try again,” I said.
Dr. Imani glanced between us. “Try what?”
Vincent’s hand tightened slightly in the blanket.
“Touch,” Caleb said quietly.
The room stilled.
Dr. Imani’s face softened by a fraction. “Are you certain?”
“No.”
It was the most honest answer he could have given.
I stepped beside the bed but left several inches between us.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Vincent looked out at the lake. Morning light silvered the water beyond the glass.
“Because yesterday, when I touched your hand, I was still in pain. I don’t know if it was real or desperation.”
“What are you hoping for?”
His voice dropped. “A second answer.”
I placed my hand palm-up on the blanket.
“Your choice.”
For a long moment, he did not move.
Caleb stood by the window, arms crossed tightly. Dr. Imani waited near the foot of the bed, silent and watchful.
Vincent lifted one finger.
His hand shook.
He lowered that finger onto my palm.
The contact was light enough to be mistaken for air.
His eyes closed immediately.
The monitor rose.
“Hospital room,” I said. “Morning. Lake outside. Caleb is pretending not to worry. Dr. Imani is pretending not to stare. My hand is under yours. No smoke. No flames.”
Caleb muttered, “I’m not pretending.”
Dr. Imani said, “I am absolutely staring.”
A breath left Vincent, almost a laugh, almost a sob.
His finger pressed more firmly.
Then another joined it.
Then his hand settled slowly into mine.
Bare skin to bare skin.
The monitor climbed, held, then gradually eased.
Vincent opened his eyes.
He looked down at our hands as if witnessing something impossible and ordinary at once.
“It doesn’t burn,” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
Caleb turned away toward the window.
Dr. Imani’s eyes shone, though her voice remained practical. “Thirty seconds. Then stop before the nervous system decides to be dramatic.”
Vincent’s mouth curved faintly. “My nervous system is offended.”
“Good. Offended patients are alive patients.”
At thirty seconds, he pulled back on his own.