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breakfast.
    After the doctors reduced Merry's medications, I expected her to wake up and start talking immediately. That didn't happen. Even out of the medically-induced coma, she was often unable to speak. A deep chill settled into my bones.
    Dr. Jenkins handed us off to the neurologist, Dr. Maloney, who would be in charge of Merry's care for the next stage. Whip and I met with him several times while she was in the hospital.
    “I want you both to understand Merry's recovery will be slow. She's conscious, medically speaking, but she's nonverbal.”
    “Meaning she can't talk,” Whip said.
    “That's right. She's following basic verbal and physical commands, so we know some of her cognitive function is returning, but she hasn't spoken.”
    “When'll that happen?” Whip ran his hand across his chin, palm rasping on whiskers, eyes clouded with worry.
    “I don't know. We're continually monitoring her brain function. We see progress.” Dr. Maloney referred to Merry's chart. “She sustained a great deal of damage to her pre-frontal cortex.”
    “English, please.”
    I had no clue what part of the brain he meant, although pre-frontal indicated it was probably at the front of her skull.
    Dr. Maloney pointed to a model of the human brain. “Here. When she hit the windshield, she sustained injuries to this section.”
    “What does it control?” I clamped down on my jaw, but I forgot to tighten my diaphragm. I stifled a hiccup.
    “Her analytic abilities.” The doctor turned the model around to face us. “Merry's brain was injured here and here. Some areas control speech; others control physical abilities—walking, balance. Still others control emotions.”
    “She could be so damaged she won't come back the way she was?”
    “That's possible. Once we move Merry to the rehab center, we'll put her through a battery of physical, occupational, and speech therapies. We'll monitor her progress. In a few weeks, we'll have a better idea of how much permanent impairment she'll have.”
    A few weeks? Damn.
    “She has a traumatic brain injury, what we call TBI.”
    “Thought that only occurred in military accidents,” Whip said.
    “Any brain injury can be characterized as traumatic, so no, they're not limited to war injuries.”
    “Merry may never be normal again?” Whip's face grew paler.
    “I'm saying she may return to near normal, or she may suffer from some kind of disability. Regardless, Merry has a long road ahead of her. You need to be prepared.”
    “Prepared for what?” Whip bore down.
    “Merry may have permanent problems with balance and other physical movement.”
    “We can manage that.”
    “She may have speech impairments.”
    “Okay.” Whip relaxed a little.
    “She may exhibit changes in her personality.”
    “Like what?” Whip leaned forward, elbows on his khaki-covered knees.
    “Irrational fears. Taking no interest in what she used to like. Verbal abuse. Substance abuse. We just don't know.”
    Whip stood, shook the doctor's hand, and opened the door.
    “Where are you going?” I didn't like Whip's expression or the dejected set of his shoulders.
    “Out.”
    Whip returned home late that evening. The kids and I ate at our regular time, and I waited in the family room until his key clicked in the door. I met him in the center hallway.
    “We have to talk.” I turned on my heel and marched back to the rear of the house. Whip followed and slumped into his chair. I poured drinks and sat opposite him.
    “What are you thinking?”
    I still hadn't had time to talk with him about my limited role in the family. No time like right now to lay it out.
    “Guess Merry's going to be in rehab for weeks, huh?” Tired blue eyes met mine. “She may not recover.”
    “She may not. We can pray for total recovery, but we should plan for the worst.” Like it or not, we had to address our fears. “What are you going to do if she doesn't get better?”
    “What do you mean?” Whip looked like he'd finally heard