“Call an ambulance,” came a voice in his head, and Jack glanced around.
A friend told me this story.
It’s often like this—someone shares a miracle they’ve experienced, and we don’t believe them. We nod along, thinking it couldn’t possibly be real. Made up, imagined, a dream, wishful thinking. What miracles? What angels? What God? Just old wives’ tales, not worth believing.
And where would miracles come from in this fast-paced, information-crazed age? Why would one random bloke get a miracle and not the rest of us? If it ever happened to me, maybe then I’d believe.
That’s exactly how Jack, twenty-eight, used to think. He lived with his mum, Margaret. His father had passed when Jack was ten. Marriage wasn’t on his mind yet. He was seeing a quiet girl named Emily. He wanted to buy a flat first, somewhere to bring his future wife. Two women sharing one kitchen? No thanks. Renting? What’s the rush? And he wasn’t keen on leaving his mum alone.
An old-fashioned bloke by modern standards. Worked in IT, just another techie. One day, mid-shift, his mum called. She never bothered him unless it was serious. When the phone rang, something was wrong. Jack answered immediately.
“Love,” her voice was weak, shaky. “I’ve broken my leg. It hurts so much—I can’t move.”
“Where are you?” Panic shot through him, making him bolt from his chair.
“By the Tesco. I’ve already called an ambulance. Just wanted to tell you, in case…”
“Mum, I’m on my way!” Jack raced to her.
Another call came as he was driving. She was being taken to the county hospital. He swung the car around. When he arrived, she was already in surgery. Hours passed in the hallway before the surgeon emerged.
“Visit tomorrow, once she’s moved from recovery to a ward,” he said.
The sun was setting when Jack left. He stopped at a shop for juice and fruit. Outside, a woman staggered past, swaying. Odd—she looked respectable, middle-aged, but obviously drunk. He reached his car, then glanced back.
She stumbled, reached for something invisible, then collapsed. Jack rushed over.
Setting his bag down, he crouched, calling to her. No response. He leaned in—no alcohol on her breath. No medical training, no clue what to do. The street was empty.
“Can you hear me? Are you alright?” He tapped her cheeks lightly.
“Won’t help. Call an ambulance, lift her head up a bit—use something,” the voice echoed clear in his mind.
Jack looked around. No one. Just a man walking a terrier further down the road. No way he’d heard that. He dialled 999.
“Tell them it’s a stroke. Hurry,” the voice urged.
Jack hesitated, then relayed it. Must be his own thoughts, right?
“Now lift her head. Gently.”
No cushion—he folded his jumper under her head. Waited, praying for sirens.
“Rub her ears hard,” the voice instructed.
He did, until they flushed red. Whether it worked or she was coming round, her eyelids fluttered as sirens neared.
“Thank God,” Jack exhaled.
Two women from the shop approached, offering advice. A small crowd gathered.
The paramedics arrived, loading her onto a stretcher.
“Stroke?” Jack asked.
“Looks like it. You a doctor?”
“No. I just… called.”
“You did right, raising her head. Got here in time,” one said before shutting the ambulance doors.
“Which hospital?” Jack called.
“County General.”
The crowd dispersed. Jack dusted off his jumper, then realised his shopping was gone. Probably nicked. “No matter, I’ll buy more tomorrow,” he muttered, heading home.
Dinner forgotten, he puzzled over the voice. People talk to themselves, sure—but never like that. No time for fragmented thoughts, just clear commands. Diagnosing a stroke? He’d barely heard of them.
Trying to summon the voice again, he got nothing. “Must be cracking up,” he laughed. No reply.
“Maybe she was some sort of psychic?” That explanation made enough sense to let him sleep.
Next day, visiting his mum, she fretted over him eating properly. “Don’t just live on toast,” she scolded.
“Don’t worry. I’ll manage. Or Emily can cook.” He stayed a while, then left—and found himself at reception.
“Did an ambulance bring in a woman last night? Stroke,” he asked a nurse.
She sent him to records.
Waiting in line, Jack wondered why he cared. He’d done his bit. Still, when his turn came:
“Eleanor Whitaker. Neurology, third floor, room seven. No visitors yet.”
Jack hadn’t planned to visit. Didn’t even know why he’d asked.
No more voices. Probably just stress.
His mum improved, walking with crutches. He visited daily. Once, passing neurology, he paused.
“Does anyone visit Eleanor? How is she?” Almost pushed, he stepped inside.
The room held pale, grey-haired women. He lingered awkwardly.
“Who are you here for, love?” one asked.
“Eleanor Whitaker.” He scanned their faces.
“That’s me.” A woman by the window.
Jack approached.
“You’re Daniel’s friend?” she asked slowly, her left lip drooping.
“No. I… called the ambulance when you collapsed.”
She nodded faintly.
“I saw you.”
“How? You were out cold.”
“You were standing with my son. He spoke to you.”
Goosebumps prickled Jack’s neck. Had the stroke addled her?
“My son was in an accident. Coma. When I heard, I nearly lost it.” Her words confirmed his suspicion. “Then my head—everything went dark. Next thing, I saw Daniel… and you. Thought he’d woken up. But he’s still under.” She looked at him pleadingly.
“Need anything? I visit my mum here—broken leg. I’ll come by.”
“Just… light a candle for Daniel at the church. And one for your mum.”
Jack had never set foot in a church. Figured only the old or unwell went. His steps echoed in the empty nave. An elderly woman at the candle stall helped him write the names, showed him where to place them.
Standing before the icon, his mind raced. Not exactly prayer. He focused: *Eleanor better. Daniel wake up. Mum’s leg heal.* Then—should he push his luck? Ask for the flat? Decided against it.
The thoughts stilled. He left calm, certain things would work out.
Jack told his mum about Eleanor. They became friends. Three days later, Daniel woke.
Two months on, Emily’s parents offered to help buy the flat. “No point waiting—marry, give us grandkids.”
Jack asked Daniel if he’d seen him during the coma. Daniel just shrugged.
Eventually, Jack stopped puzzling over it. Couldn’t have really spoken to a coma patient, heard his voice. Must’ve imagined it. Never mentioned it—not even to Emily.
