XII. Pulse
Back in the funeral home, Vaughn quickly recovered from his surprise. He picked up Sydney’s wrist, feeling it with both hands and searching for the pulse he imagined that he had felt. He thought he felt one; he pressed his fingertips to Sydney’s cold neck, trying to find a pulse there. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it because he wanted to feel it so badly, or if the slight movement he felt in his fingertips was real. He leaned over her, pressing his hands to both sides of her neck, his face knitted in concentration inches above hers. He was sure of it now. There was a pulse.
Vaughn spoke, driving out the empty stifling silence of the room. “Oh my God Sydney,” he gasped. “Oh my God, you’re alive!”
He was still feeling her pulse; he was afraid that it would disappear the instant he stopped. Exuberant hope replaced the deathly grief across Vaughn’s face. He looked up at the clock, which read 7:37.
Vaughn shook Sydney’s shoulder. “Sydney, can you hear me? Syd, we’ve got to go, your mother’s execution is in eight minutes!”