The doctor goes on, “The fever you saw at home was his body’s immune response. When sepsis set in, the fever spiked rapidly, and dehydration plus exhaustion led to his collapse.”
I swallow. My eyes burn. “What… what was his fever? The temperature? I didn't get a chance to check at home.”
“When he arrived, his temperature had reached hyperpyrexia, which means it was over 105 degrees. At that point, the body can’t regulate itself, and it becomes a medical emergency.”
That number punches the air out of my lungs.
“Does that mean… could that have killed him?”
“It could have, yes. A fever that high can shut down organs or lead to seizures. But you acted fast, and he’s stable now. That made a critical difference.”
I cover my mouth, tears falling. “So I… I helped him?”
“You absolutely did,” the doctor says firmly.
I nod, trying not to fall apart again.
“What uh… um… what happens now?” I ask. “Wha… what’s his recovery time? And what medications does he need?”
“We’ve already started IV broad-spectrum antibiotics,” he says. “He’s also receiving aggressive fluids, electrolytes, medication to stabilize his blood pressure, and oxygen.”
“Okay,” I say, hearing how small my voice sounds.
“For recovery,” he continues, “it will depend on his response. Most cases like this require 24 to 72 hours of close monitoring. After that, your husband will transfer to ICU for a few more days. Then oral antibiotics at home for ten to fourteen days.”
I take a shaky breath. “So how long does he have to stay here in the ER?”
“He’s actually stable enough to move out of the trauma bay,” the doctor explains. “We're just prepping his bed.”
I nod slowly.
“Is… is he still at risk?” My voice cracks.
He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Sepsis is always serious. But he’s young, and we intervened quickly. His prognosis is good. We’ll continue to watch him closely.”
I wipe my face again. My hands feel numb.
The doctor looks at Lincoln, still lying there sedated, his messy dark hair damp with sweat, then back at me.
“If he wakes up before the sedation wears off, he may panic. Patients with medical phobia often do. Staying nearby will help.”
“I’m not leaving him,” I say without hesitation. “I’ll stay right here.”
“Good,” he says gently. “We’ll notify you when it’s time to move him.”
He steps out, leaving me alone with Lincoln.
Sweet Lincoln.
Asshole Lincoln.
I brush a strand of hair from his forehead. His fever is lower but still too warm.
“Link…” my voice cracks. “You scared me so bad.”
His hand twitches faintly under mine.
I squeeze it tighter. “You’re going to be okay. I’m right here.”
