Chaos returned, but distant this time. Orders barked. Fluids pushed. The sensation of life support machinery being hooked up—tubes invading my throat, needles piercing my veins. I felt it all. Every pinch, every invasion. But I could not flinch.
Hours later, the room settled into the quiet hum of the ICU. The air smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee.
“Lucía, if you can hear me,” a male voice said—Dr. Martínez, the neurologist. “You are in a deep coma, potentially a locked-in state. We are doing everything we can.”
I can hear you, I thought, projecting the words with all my might. Please, tell Andrés I’m here.
As if summoned, the heavy door swooshed open. Footsteps approached. Heavy, confident footsteps.
“Mr. Molina,” Dr. Martínez said. “She is stable on life support. But her brain activity is… minimal. She cannot respond.”
“How long?” Andrés asked.
There was no tremor in his voice. No tears choking his words. It was the tone he used when asking a contractor how long a kitchen renovation would take.
“It is impossible to predict,” the doctor replied. “Could be days. Could be years.”
“And the cost?” Andrés asked immediately.
A pause. A heavy, judgmental silence from the doctor.
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