The house had finally gone quiet after two endless weeks of hospital alarms, whispered updates, and prayers spoken through trembling hands.
Hunter was back in his own bed, wrapped in the familiar scent of clean sheets and home-cooked food drifting through the kitchen.
For the first time since the accident, his mother allowed herself to believe the nightmare was loosening its grip.
Just days earlier, doctors had been preparing the family for the worst after a near-electrocution left his body ravaged and barely responsive.
Machines had breathed for him when his lungs could not.
Surgeons had fought to save his arms while the damage threatened to take them both.
The ICU had become a second home, filled with beeping monitors and the constant fear that each alarm might signal the end.
His father had memorized every number on the screen, watching blood pressure levels like they were sacred scripture.
And through it all, Hunter fought with a strength that stunned even the doctors.
When they finally discharged him, the celebration felt fragile but real.
He sat at the kitchen table with shaky hands, tasting his first home-cooked meal since the accident, smiling in a way that made everyone cry.
The future seemed uncertain, but at least it felt possible.
Friday night, the conversations were about outpatient surgery and physical therapy.
About rebuilding muscle and regaining independence.
About how long it might take before he could return to work as a lineman.
They talked about scars like they were trophies.
They talked about healing like it was already guaranteed.
They talked about tomorrow as if it belonged to them.
And then tonight came.
His left arm began to bleed without warning, dark red soaking through the bandages that had only just started to look clean.
He tried to stand but the room tilted violently, and he collapsed before anyone could catch him.
The kitchen floor, which had felt so safe days earlier, suddenly felt like the beginning of another emergency.
His mother screamed his name as his father pressed trembling hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding that would not slow.
His skin turned pale in seconds, drained of the color that had only recently returned.
The fragile sense of victory shattered like glass beneath their feet.
They rushed him to NLMC’s emergency room, the drive feeling longer than the two weeks they had just survived.
Every red light felt like a betrayal.
Every second felt stolen.
When they arrived, the staff moved quickly, recognizing a face they had only recently discharged.
His blood pressure had dropped to a dangerously low level, numbers that made even seasoned nurses exchange concerned glances.
The word “unstable” floated through the room again, a word his family thought they had left behind.
He is alert now, but extremely pale and in significant pain.
Doctors are flooding his system with fluids, fighting to stabilize what is trying to spiral out of control.
Plans are already forming to transport him to LSU for specialized care once he can handle the trip.
His father stepped into the hallway and typed a single word that carried the weight of everything they were feeling.
“PRAY!!”
It wasn’t polished, it wasn’t long, and it didn’t need to be.
Just days ago, they were planning the next stage of recovery.
Tonight, they are fighting for survival again.
The emotional whiplash is almost unbearable.
Hunter has already stared down death once.
He endured a near-electrocution that could have ended him in seconds.
He survived ventilator support, surgeries, and the terrifying possibility of losing his arms forever.
The scars on his body tell one story.
The strength in his eyes tells another.
And both say he is not finished yet.
But this new crisis feels cruel in its timing.
Just when the house began to sound like laughter again, it is filled with whispered prayers and frantic updates.
Just when his mother began sleeping through the night, she is once again pacing hospital floors.
His father’s hands, still stained faintly from dried blood, rest against the cold wall of the ER waiting room.
He remembers holding Hunter as a baby, marveling at how strong his grip already was.
Now he is praying for that same strength to carry him through one more fight.
Doctors are working to identify the source of the bleeding, aware that infection is a looming threat in a body already pushed beyond its limits.
Every IV drip feels like a fragile lifeline.
Every stabilized number feels like a tiny miracle.
In the waiting room, phones light up with messages from friends, coworkers, and strangers who have followed Hunter’s journey.
Some send Bible verses.
Some send simple words like “We’re with you.”
It may seem small, but those messages are oxygen to a family struggling to breathe.
They remind them that the fight is not theirs alone.
They remind them that hope can travel through screens and hospital walls.
Hunter’s story has never been ordinary.
As a lineman, he climbed poles and faced dangers most people never see.
He worked in storms so others could have light.
And now he is the one needing light in the darkest hour.
The irony is not lost on anyone who knows him.
The man who restored power to others now needs power restored to his own body.
The ICU two weeks ago felt like the hardest chapter.
Ventilators hissed beside him, tubes and wires mapping every fragile system.
Doctors spoke carefully, measuring every word so it would not break his family.
They remember the moment he squeezed a hand for the first time after sedation.
They remember the first time he opened his eyes.
They remember thinking that surviving that meant the worst was over.
But healing is not always a straight road.
Sometimes it loops back into fear without warning.
Sometimes it demands faith twice as strong.
Right now, what Hunter needs is simple but urgent.
For the bleeding to stop.
For his blood pressure to stabilize.
For safe transport to LSU.
For protection from infection.
For strength over his body that has already endured so much.
The doctors are cautious but determined.
They have seen resilience before, but Hunter’s has left an impression.
They know he has beaten the odds once.
The ER feels colder at night, as if the walls absorb the tension.
Machines hum steadily while nurses move with practiced urgency.
Hunter lies there, pale but awake, fighting again.
Pain radiates through his arm, a reminder of trauma that is not done testing him.
But his eyes are open.
And that matters.
His mother leans close and whispers that he is not alone.
She tells him about the messages flooding in.
She tells him people are praying across cities and states.
His father stands at the foot of the bed, steady now in a way that only faith can explain.
He does not know what the next hour will bring.
But he believes the story is not over.
The ambulance to LSU waits as doctors assess whether his body can endure the transfer.
Timing is everything.
So is prayer.
Outside the hospital, the night carries on like nothing extraordinary is happening.
Cars pass.
Streetlights glow.
Inside, a young man’s life hangs in delicate balance again.
Inside, a family holds onto hope like it is the only solid ground left.
Inside, courage is being tested for the second time in weeks.
It would be easy to ask why.
It would be easy to surrender to exhaustion.
But Hunter has never been someone who quits.
He fought electricity that surged through his body.
He fought sedation that tried to keep him silent.
He fought surgeries that threatened to take his arms.
Now he is fighting blood loss and instability.
Now he is fighting to stay present.
Now he is fighting to stay here.
And this is where we come in.
Flood this moment with prayer so powerful it reaches that ER room.
Flood this family with encouragement so they feel carried instead of crushed.
Flood the doctors with clarity and wisdom.
Pray for steady hands.
Pray for rapid stabilization.
Pray for protection from infection.
Pray for safe transport to LSU.
Pray for strength in Hunter’s body that defies every expectation.
Pray for peace in the hearts of his parents tonight.
Because just days ago, we celebrated him sitting at home eating dinner.
Just days ago, we believed the storm had passed.
And just days ago, we saw proof that miracles still happen.
Hunter has beaten the odds before.
He has surprised doctors.
He has stunned statistics.
And tonight, he needs us to believe he can do it again.
The story is not finished.
The fight is not over.
And neither is Hunter.
Let’s stand with him in this ER.
Let’s believe for stabilization.
Let’s believe for healing.
Let’s believe that the young lineman who restores power to others will once again feel strength surge back into his own veins.
He has done the impossible before.
He can do it again.
And we will not stop praying until he does.
