An eight-year-old boy stood there, rainwater still in his hair, holding a small glass jar filled with thick, dark mud that smelled like wet earth.
“What are you doing in here?” David asked, startled. “Who let you in?”
The boy didn’t move.
“My name is Lucas Reed,” he said quietly. “My grandma cleans the hospital at night. She says this helps people wake up.”
David felt irritation rise—months of hearing there’s nothing else we can do. He almost laughed. Almost called security.
But then he looked at Emily.
Her breathing felt… different.
Not stronger.
Not faster.
Just different.
“What is it?” David asked softly.
“Clay from the Colorado River bank,” Lucas said. “My great-grandma was a midwife. She said this kind of earth pulls life back when it’s fading.”
It sounded crazy.
But so did hope—and David had nothing left to lose.
“Quickly,” he said. “If anyone comes in, hide.”
Lucas dipped his fingers into the mud and gently spread it over Emily’s hospital gown, right where her pregnant belly rose. His hands were small, but steady—like they knew the map.
“Wake up, Mrs. Carter,” he whispered.
“Your baby is tired of waiting for you in dreams.”
Then it happened.
Emily’s fingers moved.
Just slightly.
But clearly.