Night fifteen on the cot.

Every nurse that had come into his room had told you to go home at some point, to go sleep in your own bed. But you couldn't, not when it was his bed too.

Not when he was laying still on a hospital bed, motionless at the sound of your hopes and prayers.

You'd been burning through his savings, allowing surgeries and procedures and so many medications you wouldn't be able to repeat them to him when he woke up. When, you kept telling yourself.

The second they'd said he was in surgery, that he was alive, that he had a chance, you got your hopes up. So you had to be there when he woke up.

Every visit home was a race; a quick shower, a change of clothes, and repacking your bag. It wasn't what he'd want, you sequestering yourself to a hospital room, but there wan't any other option in your mind.

So night fifteen came and went, that cot still set up a few inches from his bed. It was sickly familiar, the sight of the morning illuminating his face, filtered by the curtains.

The bruises had faded to faint yellow splotches on his skin, the scrapes and cuts healed over without disturbance.

All they would tell you now was that it was up to his body, that all they could do was keep him breathing. You'd turned to praying.

Well, it had started as something akin to praying. Now it was long periods of time with your elbows sunk into his bedside, his hand in both of yours as you pressed it to your forehead in silence. The word 'please' ricocheting through a mind turned blank by pastel walls and lack of explanations.

It was a miracle, for him to have survived getting hit by a bus. You knew that, but you also knew that nothing felt miraculous while you were watching him lay in a hospital bed, eyes closed.

You were holding his hand again, knuckles pressed to your cheek during your wordless, thoughtless despondence.

And then, a twitch.

Small enough to make you think your blank mind had imagined it. But then came another. You pulled his hand from your cheek to look at it, watching as he seemed to reanimate.

Twist of his wrist, flutter of his eyelashes.

Day sixteen, the prophecy had been redone.

Calvin was waking up.