He was seven, and somehow, while every adult around him had been worrying about protecting him, he'd decided protecting Emma was his job.
I hadn't noticed.
Or maybe I'd been grateful not to notice.
Later that night, I told a nurse what Noah had shown me.
I didn't say Emma was awake.
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I didn't announce a miracle.
I simply explained the finger movements and the questions.
They took it seriously.
Over the following days, her medical team watched more closely for consistent responses. We learned quickly that it wasn't as simple as Noah had made it sound.
Sometimes Emma moved.
Sometimes she didn't.
Sometimes we couldn't tell whether a movement meant anything at all.
There were discussions about levels of consciousness and responsiveness that I barely understood.
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But nobody dismissed Noah.
That mattered to him.
Around ten that night, my mother returned.
