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“I’m going to call for the nurse,” I said.
His hand squeezed mine slightly. He shook his head no.
“But, Linc, I can’t do anything.” My hand shook over his. “I need to tell them to come—”
His hand squeezed again. He shook his head no.
“Why’d you try to kill yourself?” I asked, unable to keep from crying. I brought a hand up to wipe the tears from my face, but they kept coming.
He squeezed my hand again. Shook his head no, but his own eyes filled with tears.
I stared at him. “You didn’t try to kill yourself?”
He shook his head slightly.
“Why would . . . ” I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He started tapping on my hand. At first, I thought that was all it was, but then he tapped harder, squeezed harder, opened his eyes wider as if he needed me to pay attention. Morse code.
“Morse code?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the knot in my throat.
He nodded.
I took out my phone and opened my notepad, writing down all of the dots and dashes. I couldn’t remember the alphabet.
“I’ll have to translate this,” I said. He shot me an exasperated look. “I can’t remember the alphabet.”
His eyes twinkled and he made a noise from his throat, as if he wanted to laugh, and then fell into a fit. I hit the button for the nurse and stepped away when they rushed in. His entire body shook the bed and his eyes rolled back.
“What is happening?” I shouted. “What is happening?”
More nurses rushed inside. “Step back, he’s having a seizure.”
“Get her outside,” another shouted. Arms wrapped around me as they ushered me towards the door.
“Lincoln,” I yelled, fighting against the nurse. “Lincoln. I love you.”
Lincoln was forced into a coma that day. In twenty-four hours, I went from having a brother, to losing him, to having him again, but not quite.