Part 4
The first breath was shallow. The second was stronger.
Dr. Ortiz did not smile, but she nodded once. “That’s his.”
Claire gripped the edge of the chair. “So he’s getting better?”
“It’s a good sign. He still has a long way to go.”
Over the next four hours, Scout initiated more breaths between the ventilator’s cycles. The machine continued to support him, but it no longer did all the work. Strength returned unevenly—first in his face, then in his neck, then as small movements in his front paws.
His back legs remained limp.
By late afternoon, he could open his eyes for several seconds. Each time he did, Claire leaned into his line of sight.
“We’re still here,” she told him.
Ethan stood on the other side. “Both of us. You’re not getting rid of anybody.”
Scout blinked slowly.
The pneumonia complicated every decision. Although his muscles were responding, his lungs remained inflamed from the fluid he had inhaled. Removing the breathing tube too early could exhaust him. Leaving it too long created other risks.
Dr. Ortiz delayed the first attempt until evening.
At 7:10, the staff stopped the sedative and disconnected the ventilator. The breathing tube came out smoothly. Scout coughed, gagged, and drew a ragged breath through an oxygen mask.
Claire’s fingernails pressed into Ethan’s palm.
Scout breathed again.
For the next half hour, he maintained an acceptable oxygen level. The technicians moved him into an oxygen enclosure, where he lay beneath a fleece blanket with the stolen sock near his nose.
“He did it,” Claire said.
“He’s doing it,” Dr. Ortiz corrected gently. “We aren’t past the danger yet.”
Scout could move his front paws, but he could not hold up his head for more than a few seconds. When a technician offered water on a sponge, he tried to lick it and coughed immediately.
“No food or water by mouth,” Dr. Ortiz said. “His swallowing reflex is still weak. We’ll use a feeding tube when it’s safe.”
Claire sat on the floor outside the enclosure. Scout’s eyes followed her, and for a while that was enough.
Near midnight, Ethan convinced her to eat half a turkey sandwich from the vending machine. They shared it in the waiting room without tasting it.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
“I did for twenty minutes.”
“You closed your eyes. That isn’t sleep.”
“It’s close.”
Claire leaned against his shoulder. Neither apologized for the earlier argument. The space between them had narrowed anyway.
At 1:48 a.m., a technician entered the waiting room.
“Scout’s temperature is rising,” she said. “Dr. Ortiz is examining him.”
They were brought to a consultation room, where Scout’s newest chest X-ray glowed on the wall. The cloudy patch in his right lung had spread upward.
“The pneumonia is progressing,” Dr. Ortiz said. “We’ve adjusted his antibiotics and increased the oxygen concentration. His heart and blood pressure are still stable, but he’s working harder to breathe.”
“Does he need the ventilator again?” Ethan asked.
“Not yet. He may if he tires.”
Claire looked through the narrow window in the door. Scout lay in the oxygen enclosure with his head turned toward them.
“What would you do?” she asked.
Dr. Ortiz folded her arms. “I would continue treatment. We know the underlying paralysis is improving. His lungs are now the primary problem, and pneumonia is treatable. But if he requires ventilation again, I want your permission before an emergency forces the decision.”
Ethan took Claire’s hand.
This was the same question in another form: how much intervention was hope, and when did hope become something they were asking Scout to endure for them?
“What signs would tell you it’s no longer fair?” Ethan asked.
“Failure of multiple organs. Uncontrolled pain. Continued decline despite appropriate treatment. We’re not seeing those things now.”
“And if he gets tired?”
“We support him.”
Claire looked at Ethan. He did not reach for the form until she nodded.
“Then support him,” she said.
At 3:00 a.m., Scout’s fever reached 104.9. His breaths came faster, and his oxygen level began to drift downward.
A technician opened the enclosure to adjust the mask. Scout lifted his head, searching past her shoulder.
Claire stepped into view.
Scout held his head up for three seconds.
Then five.
His legs still would not support him, and the fever had not broken, but he kept his eyes on Claire until his neck gave out.
As his chin settled onto the blanket, one front paw moved toward the glass…
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