Andrew Minyard.

Two months had passed since Neil's return from the butcher's basement—well, return, so to speak. Neil was in a coma, breathing machines were keeping him alive, and doctors gave him no chance of waking up. All this time, Andrew sat on a chair next to Neil's bed, holding his hand, a cold, pale hand. During this time, Neil's body had become almost lifeless, but Andrew hadn't lost hope; he believed Neil would return, alive. Andrew himself was also becoming like a corpse, sleeping poorly, barely eating. His teammates urged him to eat or get some proper sleep, but he refused.
A few days later, Neil's hand trembled, faintly, barely noticeably, but Andrew noticed
“Neil?” he asked quietly, but there was no immediate answer.
A minute passed, two, Neil opened his eyes, lifelessly, as if his eyelids weighed a ton, the first thing he saw was a dark silhouette, Andrew
“Andrew,” Neil squeezed out, the words sounding more like a squeak, a whisper of the wind.
“I’m nearby,” he said calmly.
Neil tried to move his legs, but he couldn't feel them, as if they weren't there, they weren't his. Looking at the entrance, Neil saw a stroller next to it and realized that he wouldn't be able to walk for a while.
“You understood everything correctly,” Andrew stated.
“But you will try again, even if the doctors say that the chance is very small.” For Neil, these words sounded like a bummer and at the same time a consolation.