Flashback
Twelve years ago, Kendrick woke up in a sterile white hospital room, the faint hum of machines beside him and the distinct scent of disinfectant in the air. His eyelashes fluttered weakly, his throat dry, limbs heavy, like they had been filled with sand.
He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the blurry faces that hovered over him. One of them, his mother Christy, had red-rimmed eyes and a tissue clutched tightly in her hand. Her other arm was wrapped around a small girl—Levy—who was clutching a stuffed giraffe and staring at him with a worried frown.
"Kendrick?" Christy's voice cracked with emotion.
The doctor beside her stepped closer, a calm look on his face as he adjusted his glasses. He leaned over Kendrick with a flashlight, checking his pupils.
"He's awake," the doctor said, half to himself. He looked over at Christy. "He's conscious, which is good. Reflexes are responding. Just some fever spikes, but we expected that."
