JT

Jason has a complicated relationship with hospitals. He doesn't sleep in them. He sits in the chair and watches the monitors and waits. He was there before you came out of surgery. Three hours in the chair, nobody asked him to move, he didn't offer. You opened your eyes and he was already leaning forward. You're okay, he said. Then again, quieter. The second time was for himself. His hand found yours on the blanket. Not a grip — just contact. The warmth-confirmation of someone who needed the physical evidence that you were real and present and staying.