Chapter 84 Make Sure
I couldn't bring myself to say the words. It felt too close to begging. And Tristan Johnston didn't respond to begging; he responded to strength. So, I tried to be strong for him.
At 11:00 AM, the lead surgeon, Dr. Aris, walked into the waiting room.
I stood up immediately, bracing myself for the worst.
"Ms. Hayes," Dr. Aris said, offering a small, encouraging nod. "We've completely tapered off the paralytics and reduced the sedatives. He's breathing over the ventilator."
"What does that mean?" Lonnie asked, sitting forward in his chair.
"It means his lungs are doing the work, not the machine," Dr. Aris explained. "We're going to extubate him. Remove the breathing tube."
My breath caught in my throat.
"Is he awake?" I asked.
"He's responsive to pain stimuli," Dr. Aris said carefully. "He's not fully conscious, but he's surfacing. Once the tube is out, it might take him a few hours to fully wake up."
The doctor looked at me.
"You can be in the room when we do it," he offered. "It can be distressing for the patient to wake up disoriented with a tube down their throat. Having a familiar face nearby helps."
"I'll be there," I said instantly.
I followed the doctor back to Room 3.
The room was crowded with nurses and respiratory therapists. They moved around Tristan’s bed with practiced efficiency, adjusting monitors and preparing syringes.
I stood in the corner, my hands clasped tightly together, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Tristan looked different without the heavy sedation. The terrifying stillness was gone. His brow was furrowed slightly, a faint grimace of pain touching his lips. His head shifted restlessly on the pillow.
"Okay, Mr. Johnston," Dr. Aris said loudly, leaning close to Tristan’s ear. "We're going to take the tube out now. It's going to be uncomfortable. I need you to cough for me on three."
The doctor deflated the small cuff securing the tube in Tristan’s airway.
"One. Two. Three. Cough."
The doctor pulled the long, thick plastic tube smoothly out of Tristan’s throat.
Tristan gagged, his body arching off the bed. He let out a harsh, wet cough that sounded like tearing sandpaper.
"Good, good," the nurse soothed, quickly placing an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. "Keep coughing. Clear it out."
He coughed again, a weak, rattling sound that ended in a groan of pure agony. His hand—the one not connected to the IV lines—clenched into a fist, the knuckles turning white.
"The pain is going to be severe," Dr. Aris warned me quietly. "The bullet shattered bone and tore muscle. We have him on a Dilaudid drip, but he's going to feel it."
Tristan’s head rolled to the side.
His eyelids fluttered.
They were heavy, fighting against the lingering effects of the sedatives, but slowly, agonizingly, they opened.
The amber eyes were cloudy, unfocused, darting frantically around the bright, sterile room. The monitors beeped faster, his heart rate spiking as panic set in. He tried to lift his head, tried to reach for the mask on his face.
"Tristan, no," I said, stepping forward quickly.
I grabbed his hand, interlacing my fingers with his. His skin was warm, his grip surprisingly strong.
"Tristan, look at me," I commanded, keeping my voice steady and calm.
His frantic gaze stopped darting.
He looked at me.
It took a few seconds for his brain to process the image. The confusion slowly cleared, replaced by a profound, overwhelming relief.
He stopped fighting the mask. His head fell back against the pillow.
He tried to speak, but his throat was raw from the tube. He just let out a dry, raspy croak.
"Don't try to talk," I whispered, leaning over him, my face inches from his. "You're in the hospital. You were shot. But you're safe now. We're safe."
His eyes searched my face, scanning every feature, looking for signs of injury. When he found none, a tear slipped from the corner of his eye, tracking down his temple into his dark hair.
He squeezed my hand. A weak, desperate pressure.
He tried to speak again.
I leaned closer, turning my ear toward his mouth, pulling the edge of the oxygen mask away just a fraction.
"Mina..."
The word was barely a breath. It was a broken, jagged sound, dragged over raw vocal cords.
It was my name.
His first word was my name.
I choked out a sob, the tears finally overflowing, hot and fast down my cheeks.
"I'm here," I cried, pressing my forehead gently against his uninjured shoulder. "I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."
He let out a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving his body. His eyes drifted closed, the exhaustion pulling him back under.
But his hand remained tightly locked around mine.
He was back. The Titan had returned from the dark.
And this time, I was going to make damn sure the light never went out again.