The oxygen mask was gone, and Archie could see Henry’s face again. His chin and scalp were prickly where salt-and-pepper hair the color of his mustache had grown out to stubble, but his color was better. His blood pressure was up. He looked like he was alive.

Claire let go of Archie’s hand, picked a scab of dried saliva from the corner of Henry’s mouth, and flicked it on the floor.

The room seemed weirdly quiet without the sound of the artificial respirator.

The doctors and nurses were in and out at a regular clip. Everyone was smiley.

Henry’s eyes fluttered again.

“There,” Claire said.

Her face lit up every time it happened.

Henry’s neurologist swept into the room for the fourth time in ten minutes. She was Indian and wore her thick black hair in a braid that hung against the back of her white lab coat. She glanced at the monitor.

“He fluttered again,” Claire said.

The neurologist smiled. “That’s a good sign,” she said, and she typed something into Henry’s chart and left.

“She doesn’t think he’ll wake up,” Claire said.

“He’ll wake up.”

Claire rocked her head back and gazed at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have called you,” she said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“This is important.”

She blinked at the ceiling for a long moment and then looked at Archie. “Go,” she said. “Try to find that kid.”

Archie hesitated.

“Go,” Claire said.

Archie stood up. “Call me if anything changes?”

“Yep.”

He reached his hand out and laid it on Henry’s chest. The cloth of the hospital shirt felt insubstantial. Archie coughed and lifted his hand to his mouth. “Okay,” he said.

He turned and made it a few steps.

“Archie?” Claire said.

“Another flutter?”

“No,” she said.

He turned. Claire was standing now, both hands over her mouth, eyes shiny with tears.

Henry’s eyes were open.

Archie hurried back to the bedside beside Claire.

Henry’s lids were heavy, his eyes slits. But they were open.

The neurologist appeared, briskly ushering Claire and Archie toward the foot of the bed.

She whipped an ophthalmoscope out of her lab coat pocket and shone it back and forth between Henry’s eyes.

“Henry?” she said in a loud clear voice. “Can you hear me?”

Claire gripped Archie’s arm.

Henry squinted at the light. “Yeah,” he croaked.

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” said Claire. She let go of Archie, squeezed around the doctor, and took one of Henry’s hands in hers.

Henry gazed up at her and smiled. “Hey, baby,” he whispered.

Claire laid her head gently on Henry’s chest. Tears streamed from her eyes and her shoulders shook, but the grin on her face was luminous.

“Do you know your last name?” the doctor asked.

“Sobol,” Henry rasped.

“Do you know who the president is?”