It was mid-afternoon before Christmas, in a private hospital room in Dumaguete City.
Vaughn Lee’s fingers twitched, and he slowly fluttered his light brown eyes, trying to adjust from the light that assaulted him. His mouth and throat felt dry and scratchy—definitely uncomfortable. There was also an unwelcome feeling around the bridge of his nose due to the nasogastric tube inserted into it. He wanted it to go away.
He was disoriented. He had no idea where he was or what had happened.
He wanted to move, and yet his body seemed to refuse to move freely. It was difficult and felt heavy.
“Oh, my son! Vaughn! Nemuel, he’s awake!”
He heard that familiar female voice. “M-Mom?” He tried to voice out. And yet, it came out as a whisper and sounded hoarse.
“Oh, thank God you’re awake now,” Ve
