Leah Archer was just 12 years old when she hit her head on a rock and fell into a coma, one that doctors weren't sure she'd ever come back from. But when she wakes up four years later, she faces the struggle of recovery and fights to regain any hint...
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"Nurse!" I call, and Bree hits the call button on Leah's bedside. My eyes are trained on her face, her eyes still moving. Her hand has gone limp in mine, but my skin is still tingling from where she squeezed it.
One of the nurses I've seen checking Leah, but never bothered to remember their name, walks into the room with a doctor following her. The nurse pulls over her chart and looks at the monitors while the doctor turns to us. "What's going on?" She asks, peeking over at Leah and not seeing any immediate signs of danger.
"Her eyes were moving under her eyelids," Bree answers, and I cut in.
"And when I asked her to squeeze my hand if she could hear me, she did."
The doctor moves over to Leah, opening one of her eyelids. Before she can move to shine the flashlight, Leah's eyes move around before latching on the doctors face. The doctor's eyebrows furrow, and I'm not sure if it's in worry or confusion or some other emotion.
"Leah?" She calls. "Can you follow my finger with your eyes?" She holds up a finger in front of Leah's face, moving it slowly back and forth. Leah's eyes track it, slow and jerky.
The doctor lets her eyelid close. "Even if she's not conscious, she's following movement, which is a good sign. She should–"
Before she can continue, the heart monitor blares through the room.
"What's going on?" Bree asks, her voice soaked in panic.
"Her breathing is increasing," the nurse comments, and fear grips my heart. The doctor yells out commands to the nurse, but I can't tell what she's saying. My eyes are trained solely on Leah, her chest moving up and down rapidly. An oxygen mask is slipped over her face as something is injected into her IV. Dr. Archer moves through the door, and now I can't breathe.
