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aide caught it. Dr. King ordered another EEG and a new series of scans.”
    A stranger’s voice. That accent. “Caught” sounded like “cot.” Losing the r in “ordered” and “another.” That was known as non-rhotic pronunciation. She remembered this from broadcast journalism training. Losethe caught-cot merger. Speak the rhotic r . Never let anyone guess where you come from.
    The mystery speaker’s accent was straight out of northern Vermont.
    â€œHelp me with this EEG, will you?” Something jarred her head.
    Knock it off.
    Ma’am, this is a hard-hat area . Were they putting a hard hat on her? No, a hairnet. No, a swim cap.
    Swimmers, take your marks .
    She could see herself bending, coiled like a spring, toes curled over the edge of the starting block. She was one of the fastest swimmers on the high school team, the Switchback Wildcats. Senior year, she’d broken the state record for the one-hundred-meter breast. Senior year, she’d seen her life roll out like an endless, shimmering river, with everything in front of her. Senior year, she’d fallen in love for the first time.
    â€œ. . . always wondered how I’d look with short hair like this,” said one of the voices. Shawt hay-ah . The non-rhotic r .
    Beep. The starting tone buzzed through the aquatic center. Annie plunged.
    Dry. Why was her throat dry even though she wasn’t thirsty? Why couldn’t she swallow? Something stiff confined her neck. Take it off. Need to breathe .
    She floated some more. Water the same temperature as her body. She had to pee. And then she didn’t have to pee. After a while, there were no more physical sensations, only feelings pulsating through her head and neck and chest. Panic and grief. Rage. Why?
    She was known for her calm demeanor. Annie will fix it. She fixed people’s accents. Lighting problems. Set design. Stuck valves.
    Lefty loosey, righty tighty . With the maple leaf key chain in her hand, she demonstrated.
    â€œSee? That movement—it’s not random.”
    A voice again.
    â€œShe’s left-handed.”
    Another voice.
    â€œI know she’s left-handed. So am I.”
    Mom . Mom?
    â€œShe looks the same,” said the mom voice. Yes, it was unmistakable. “I don’t see any change at all. How can you tell me she’s waking up?”
    â€œIt’s not exactly waking up. It’s a transition into a more conscious state. The EEG shows increased activity. It’s a hopeful sign.”
    A different voice. “People don’t suddenly wake up from something like this; they come around gradually, drifting in and out. Annie. Annie, can you open your eyes?”
    No. Can’t.
    â€œSqueeze my finger.”
    No. Can’t.
    â€œCan you wiggle your toes?”
    No. Jesus .
    â€œIt can be a lengthy process,” the voice said. “And unpredictable, but we’re optimistic. The scans show no permanent damage. Her respiration has been excellent since we removed the tracheostomy tube.”
    Trache . . . what? Wasn’t that like a hole in her windpipe? Gross . Was that why it hurt to swallow, to breathe?
    â€œI’m sorry.” The mom voice was thick with tears. “It’s just so hard to see . . .”
    â€œI understand. But this is a time to feel encouraged. She’s avoided so many of the common complications—pulmonary infection, contractures, joint changes, thrombosis . . . so much that could have gone wrong simply didn’t. And that’s a good thing.”
    â€œHow do I see something good here?” Mom whispered.
    â€œI know it’s been difficult for you, but believe me, she’s one of thelucky ones. With this new activity, the care team thinks she’s turned the corner. We’re staying positive.”
    â€œAll right. Then so am I.” Mom’s voice, soft with desperate hope. “But if . . . when she wakes up, what if she’s different?