INT. ICU ROOM — AFTERNOON

The room feels steadier today.
Monitors stable.
Impella console humming softly.
Ventilator ready.

Jo is propped upright.
Eyes open. Focused. Tired, but present.

The tube remains taped in place.

Link sits close, one hand wrapped around hers.
 
Dr. Ndugu stands at the foot of the bed.
Ben is already at the ventilator.

NDUGU
Okay, Jo.
We’re going to try again.

Her eyes shift to him.

A slow blink. Ready.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Same as yesterday.
Minimal support.
If your heart doesn’t like it, we stop.

Jo tightens her grip around Link’s fingers.
He kisses her hand.

LINK
It’s okay.
We just want to see where you are.

Ndugu nods to Ben.

A beat.

Ben nods back and changes the ventilator settings.
The machine softens.

Jo’s chest begins to work harder.
At first, her breathing speeds up.

Ben watches the monitor.

BEN
Respiratory rate’s up.
Twenty-four.

Jo’s brow tightens.
A sheen of sweat forms.

But she doesn’t panic.
Her eyes stay on Link.

LINK
(low, grounding)
I’m right here.

Minutes pass.
Her breathing steadies into a rhythm.
Still fast.
But controlled.

BEN
Sats are holding.
Pressure’s stable.

Ndugu watches another minute.
Her heart rate rises slightly.
Then plateaus.
Doesn’t spike.
Doesn’t drop.

He nods once.

NDUGU
Okay.
She’s tolerating it. 

He looks at Ben.

NDUGU (CONT'D)
I’m going to step out.
Keep her on minimal support.
Call me if anything drifts.

BEN
Got it.

Ndugu checks his watch.

NDUGU
I’ll come back in thirty minutes to reassess.

Ben nods.

Ndugu gives Ben a final look — you’ve got this — and steps out.
The door closes softly.

Ben pulls a stool closer to the bed.

BEN
Alright.
We’re just going to sit with this.

Jo’s eyes flick to him.

Time stretches.

She keeps breathing.
Shoulders working, but not urgently.

Ben glances at the monitor.

BEN (CONT’D)
Numbers look good.

He looks back at Jo.
A soft smile.

BEN (CONT’D)
So.
I finally watched that Netflix movie you told me not to watch.

Link huffs quietly.

BEN (CONT’D)
You were right.
No one survives that many explosions.

A faint exhale from Jo.
Ben keeps talking, easy. Unforced.

Her breathing evens out slightly.
Not because she’s trying, but because she’s listening.

Ben checks the monitor again.

BEN (CONT'D)
You’re doing great.

Another quiet stretch.
No arrhythmia.
No drop in pressure.
No oxygen drift.

Time passes.

Link stays close, thumb brushing slowly over her hand.

LINK
(quiet)
You're doing it.

Ben checks the clock.

BEN
We’re at thirty minutes.

He studies the monitor.

BEN (CONT’D)
Everything’s holding.

He reaches for his pager.

INT. ICU ROOM — MOMENTS LATER

Ndugu returns.

NDUGU
Alright.
How did it go in here?

BEN
She’s holding.

Link’s breath catches.

NDUGU
Good.

He studies the monitor.
Watches Jo breathe.
 
A long beat. 

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Then I’m comfortable calling this a pass.

No celebration.

Just relief, carefully contained.

Link doesn’t react right away.
He waits.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We can take the tube out.

Jo’s eyes widen.
Fear flickers.
But beneath it: readiness.

Link squeezes her hand. 
His eyes shine.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Okay.

Ndugu turns slightly towards Ben.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Go ahead.

Ben nods. Calm, focused.

He raises the head of the bed slightly more.
Positions a towel across Jo’s chest.
Checks suction.

BEN
Alright, Jo.
We’re going to suction first.

The catheter slides in.

Jo grimaces — eyes watering — but stays with them.
Quick. Controlled.

Link tightens his hold on her hand.
Ben increases oxygen briefly.

BEN (CONT'D)
We’re going to give you a little extra oxygen for a moment.
(a beat)
Just let the vent help you.

A few steady breaths.

NDUGU
When it comes out, you’ll cough.
Don’t fight it.

Jo blinks once.

Ben deflates the cuff.

BEN
Okay. On three.

Link squeezes her hand.

BEN (CONT’D)
One…
Two…
Three.

The tube slides free in one smooth motion.

Jo coughs. Hard. Instinctive.

Her body surges forward, gasping.
Ben immediately fits the oxygen mask over her face.

BEN (CONT'D)
Slow breaths.
That’s it.

She coughs again. Then again.
Her throat burns. Her chest aches.

Then air moves.
Real air.
Her own.
Rough. Hoarse. Uneven.

Her breathing finds a rhythm, shaky, uneven. But hers.

The ventilator falls silent.
Ben watches closely.

BEN (CONT'D)
Work of breathing looks okay.

After a moment, he switches the mask to a nasal cannula.
Adjusts the flow.

BEN (CONT’D)
Alright.
That’s better.
 
Jo tries to speak.
Nothing comes out.
Her throat burns.
Her eyes fill instantly.

NDUGU
Don’t rush the voice.

She nods faintly.
Exhaustion crashes in, fast and brutal.
Her head sinks back into the pillow.

Link leans close.

LINK
(soft)
I love you.

Her fingers tighten weakly around his.

She lifts a trembling hand to his cheek.
No words.
Her eyes close for half a second — overwhelmed — then open again.

She’s breathing.
On her own.
Barely.

Link doesn’t move.
He just stays exactly where he is.
Watching her breathe and knowing how fragile that still is.

They stay like that for a beat, protecting the win. 
Because everyone in the room knows this is progress, not the end of the road.

Ben and Ndugu exchange a quiet look.
Contained relief. 

They step out together, careful not to disturb the moment.

BEN
We’ll be nearby.

The door closes softly.

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — MOMENTS LATER

Jo has drifted to sleep.

Link steps out quietly. 

The adrenaline hasn’t left his body yet.

Ndugu stands at the nurses’ station, charting.

Link approaches.

LINK
So what can we expect now?

Ndugu considers him.

NDUGU
Today was a win.
(a beat)
But we don’t change the plan yet.

The relief shifts.
Not gone.
Just reshaped.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
She’s still relying heavily on the Impella.

LINK
So now we just… wait?

NDUGU
Watch and wait for her heart to recover.

Link nods slowly.
Not satisfied.

Ndugu closes the chart. 
A brief tap to Link’s shoulder.

NDUGU (CONT'D)
Take the win.
(a beat)
Let's give her time.

A measured look.

Then he walks off.

Link stands there for a beat.

Breathing.
Then he turns back toward Jo.

FADE OUT.