This isn't how it goes. It's different. His hands are free, and he finds himself leaning against someone, hearing the voice again, and there's an empty sort of ache that fills him and it's so different from the daily pain, but it's familiar. Familiar like a favorite pair of shoes you haven't worn in a while and slip on to find out how comfortable they are, and wonder why you haven't worn them for so long.

He's awake, isn't he. This is real.

He focuses some of his precious, limited energy on lifting his head.

He knows that face.

He's seen it before.

He opens his mouth but his throat is ravaged by the shouts and grunts and yells of what feels like an eternity of agony, and all that comes out is a rasp growl that makes his vocal cords feel like they're on fire.

But he's remembered the name and he wants to say it.

Isaac.

Isaac.