The doctor didn't sit down.
That was the first thing Vinny noticed—the way the man remained standing at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together, posture too straight. Doctors only did that when they didn't plan on staying long. When there was nothing left to soften.
The steady beep of the monitor beside Aiden's bed filled the room, rhythmic and cruelly calm. Vinny stood on the opposite side, fingers wrapped around the metal rail so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Matthew stood just behind him, close enough that Vinny could feel the heat of his body, the solid presence anchoring him even before the words fell.
"I'm sorry," the doctor said. His voice was measured, practiced. "There's been no neurological improvement."
Vinny blinked. Once. Twice. "What… what does that mean?"
The doctor inhaled quietly. "The swelling hasn't reduced. The damage is extensive. At this point, we have to consider the possibility that—"
"No," Vinny said softly, almost politely. "No, you don't."
