Weekly Prompt Writing

He hopped among the hay-bales, as he had done every summer for as long as he could remember. The sun was sinking in the sky, tinting the trimmed field gold. A chilly wind was picking up, and he knew the grass would be wet and cold when he walked back to the house in bare feet. But he didn't care. He inhaled the smell of the dusty bales and curled his toes against the greenish plastic that held them together. He leapt to the next hay-bale, fording the gap with practiced ease and shaking hair from his eyes. "I wonder what Mom's making for dinner." 
It was his last thought before he fell.
He awoke in a hospital bed, and mechanic beeping invaded his ears as he glanced at the plethora of tubes running from different places on his body to large medical equipment. He blinked and his eyes refocused on the worry-worn face of his mother. 
"He's awake," she breathed, then screamed it, then dissolved into tears. A nurse came running and something made of cold metal was thrust underneath his tongue. "He's awake," his mother kept saying, as a plastic band squeezed his arm, then released its pressure. The nurse babbled something he was too tired to understand. 
He opened his mouth and spoke. "Hi, Mom. What's going on?"
She took his hand into her own, which were cold and shaky. "You're awake, you can come home now," she said. "After four months you can come home!"