The Longest Wait
By day thirty, the doctors started using words like permanent damage and long-term care. I couldn’t bear it. I collapsed in the hallway, sobbing.
Marcus found me there and sat beside me without saying a word. After a while, he simply said, “You can’t give up on him. Not yet.”
His faith didn’t make sense, but it gave me strength.
On day forty-five, he brought a small box — a model motorcycle kit. “For when he wakes up,” he said. “We’ll build it together.”
I nodded, too choked up to speak.
The Forty-Seventh Day
It was early morning. Marcus was already there, reading softly when I walked in.
Then, I saw it — a small twitch in Jake’s hand.
“Marcus,” I whispered. “Did you see that?”
We froze. Then Jake’s fingers moved again. The machines beeped wildly. His eyelids fluttered.
“Jake!” I called, grabbing his hand. “Buddy, it’s Dad. Can you hear me?”
And then his eyes opened.
The nurses rushed in. My heart felt like it might burst. Jake looked confused, his gaze darting between us — and then landed on Marcus.
“You…” he whispered, his voice raspy. “You’re the man who saved me.”
Marcus blinked, stunned. “Son, I— I hit you with my bike.”
Jake shook his head weakly. “You stopped. You pulled me back. You held me and told me I’d be okay. You saved me.”
Tears rolled down Marcus’s face — this big, tattooed biker crying openly beside my son’s hospital bed.
