Hope sleeps and burns.  Up.  Slowly.  But surely.  Up and up.  While Dylan sweeps her hair back from her face.  Gently.  So as not to wake her.  And presses a cool cloth to her head.  Which quickly heats.  Needing to be replaced.  Again and again.

He kneels at Hope's bedside.  Hoping and praying.  For Hope.

Paulo stands guard.  Pacing back and forth.  In Hope's room.  A room with so much of Hope.  Everywhere.

Her easel and paintings in the corner.  Paints.  Palette. Brushes.  All at the ready.   A blank canvas sits still.  Awaiting hope.  To create something.  Where there was once nothing.  The way only Hope can do.

And mounds of clay.  For sculpting.  And shaping. 

Scraps of fabric.  For square.  Upon square.  Of quilts.  Patched together.  With Hope.

And piles of books.  Upon Hope's desk.  With markers.  To have.  And to hold.  Onto pages.  And pages.

Hope tosses and turns.  Not turning the corner.  That they all want.  And need Hope to.

Instead Hope cries out.  In her sleep.  As Dylan reaches for her hand.  And holds tight. 

To Hope.

Hope's been standing on her own.  Feeling like she had no one around her.  For far too long.

But when Dylan reaches for Hope.  She tosses.  Then turns.

Finding her way. 

And his.

Dylan stands.

As Hope helps him from his knees.