The room was silent except for Victoria’s ragged breathing. She wiped her eyes, preparing to go back downstairs and face the firing squad.
She rested her hand flat on the bedsheet, inches from Alistair’s paralyzed arm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him.
Suddenly, she gasped.
Alistair’s index finger twitched. It wasn’t a spasm. It lifted off the mattress, fighting the gravity that had held it down for months.
Victoria froze. “Alistair?”
His finger pressed down onto the back of her hand. Slowly, agonizingly, he began to trace a shape.
*Curve. Curve.* **S.**
Victoria stared, her heart hammering.
*Up. Down. Cross.* **A.**
He was shaking with the effort, sweat beading on his forehead, but his eyes were locked on hers with a ferocious intensity.
*Down. Up.* **V.**
*Line. Line. Line.* **E.**
**S-A-V-E.**
His finger collapsed back onto the bed. Victoria looked at him, then at her hand where the ghost letters burned. He didn’t just want to survive. He wanted to fight.