As we left the grave, my son screamed, “Mom is cold! I felt her hand!” My sister hissed, “Stop this embarrassment, she’s gone,” trying to drag him away. I ignored her and grabbed a shovel. I dug until my hands bled. When the lid finally popped open, the crowd froze in horror. My wife’s eyes were wide open, and the desperate scratches on the inside of the lid revealed a truth that made the police arrest my sister instantly

Then… thump.

A pause that lasted an eternity.

Thump.

Weak. Thread-like. Struggling against the immense weight of the metabolic suppression she was under. But it was there.

“Get a doctor!” I screamed. The sound tore from my throat, a primal roar that didn’t sound like me at all. “Get a doctor! NOW!”

“What?” Halloway stammered, stepping back.

“She has a pulse!” I yelled, turning to the crowd. “Call 911! She’s alive!”

Chaos erupted. It was immediate and absolute.

Someone screamed. Another person staggered backward and fell over a tombstone. People were running. Phones were being pulled out.

“She’s alive!” someone echoed.

“It’s a miracle!” another voice cried out.

“It’s impossible!” Mark shouted, rushing to the other side of the coffin. He touched her wrist. His eyes went wide, vast saucers of shock. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Tom. I feel it.”