“Mr. Ryan’s prognosis is uncertain. The specialists with whom I spoke said it is a waiting game to see if the swelling in his brain recedes. If it does, he has an excellent chance of survival. If not . . .” Her voice trailed off as she moved around to the end of the bed. There, she looked directly into the camera. “Everything about this case is uncertain right now, except this: This is a story of heroes, both in the war zone and at home. John Ryan wanted to bring this story to the American people, and I know him well enough to say that he knew the risks he was taking and wouldn’t have made another choice. And while he was covering the war, his wife, Kathleen, was at home with their one-year-old daughter, believing that what her husband was doing was important. Like any soldier’s wife, it was her sacrifice as much as his that made it possible for John Ryan to do his job.” The picture cut back to Tully on the hospital steps. “This is Tallulah Hart, reporting from Germany. And may I say, Bryant, that our prayers are certainly with the Ryan family today.”

Kate stared at the television long after the segment had ended. “She made us look like heroes,” she said to the empty room. “Even me.”

She felt a flutter-soft movement against her palm. It was so gentle that at first she almost didn’t notice. Frowning, she glanced down.

Johnny slowly opened his eyes.

“Johnny?” she whispered, half afraid that she was making this up, that the stress had finally cracked her. “Can you see me?”

He squeezed her hand. It was barely a squeeze, really; normally it wouldn’t even qualify as a touch, but now it made her laugh and cry at the same time.

“Can you see me?” she asked again, leaning close. “Close your eyes once if you can see me.”

Slowly, he closed his eyes.

She kissed his cheek, his forehead, his cracked, dry lips. “Do you know where you are?” she finally asked, pulling back, hitting the nurses’ button.

She could see the confusion in his eyes and it scared her. “How about me? Do you know who I am?”

He stared up at her, swallowed hard. Slowly, he opened his mouth and said, “My . . . Katie.”

“Yes,” she said, bursting into tears. “I’m your Katie.”

The next seventy-two hours were a whirlwind of meetings, procedures, tests, and medication adjustments. Kate accompanied Johnny to consultations with ophthalmologists, psychiatrists, physical therapists, speech and occupational therapists, and, of course, Dr. Schmidt. Everyone, it seemed, had to sign off on Johnny’s recovery before she could move him to a rehabilitation center near home.

“He is lucky to have you,” Dr. Schmidt said at the conclusion of their meeting.

Kate smiled. “I’m lucky to have him.”