It's just a blip. The tiniest of tiny blips on the chart, but there is a number, now, where for weeks there had been none. I'm all a million questions suddenly, wide awake, reaching for the controls at the side of my bed, fumbling for the little button that's like a triangle pointing up. I'd like to say that I'm sitting up in bed, like a bolt, but I'm still too tired for that. The bed adjusts. It's motorized, adjustable, and it helps me get kind of vertical without having to expend any energy.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Positive," Cindy says. "Absolutely positive."
"That's it? That doesn't sound like much."
Cindy laughs. "It's better than zero."
"Are you sure?"
"Could it be a mistake?"
"Doubt it. We'll do some extra draws today. We'll make sure."
It's so completely unexpected, this rough early morning wake up call, these new counts coming back so late in the game. It's the best news we've had in a very long time. It's the single best piece of news we've probably received since I've been in the hospital. But that still doesn't prevent me from asking the obvious question. Maybe I just want to hear Cindy say it out loud.
"This is good, right?"
"Yes, Robert," she says, smiling, laughing. "This is very, very good."