Chapter Text
We moved into a real house
A wild field behind it
I wanted to be an inventor, collected scraps to make a portal
I wanted so much for magic to be real
*
8.10
After they leave Dennis in the room, Dr Robby turns to Santos. “Do you know if we can reach his mom?”
“I don’t know if there is a mom to reach,” she confesses. “I’ve never seen him talk to his parents. He mentions people in passing, but no one ever came to visit. I know he’s from this small town in bumfuck nowhere in Nebraska. I assumed they were dead or maybe they weren’t on speaking terms because of—“ She abruptly cuts herself off. “Whatever.”
He furrows his brows, feeling exhausted already and the sun has just come up. “Because of what?”
Santos rolls her eyes so deeply Robbie thinks she’ll have an aneurysm. “Come on, now,” she says, but refuses to elaborate any further. “It doesn’t matter. All I know is he’s not in contact with his family. We’ve lived together for a year and I’ve never heard him speak to them. He asked if he could put me down as his emergency contact number when he moved in, and that’s all.”
“No brothers? Sisters? Uncles and aunts? Hell, second cousins? What was he doing before he moved in with you? Any old friends or roommates who might know?”
“No,” Santos brushes off. “Leave it.”
“We might have his address on file,” Robby says, though more to himself, and he seriously doubts he could get anything from an old address. He probably lived with a bunch of students who all moved out by now.
“You won’t,” Santos snaps. “Just– leave it.”
“Dr Santos, if there is anything that constitutes a serious danger to one of my residents, as your attending I have the right to know.”
Trinity exhales loudly like she’s struggling to contain herself. “Before he moved in with me, he was in between places,” she spits. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“What, he was living on a friend’s couch or something? There are p–”
“There are programs,” she mocks, but then her voice grows serious. “Dr. Robby, I’m only telling you this so you can get off my ass. I was the only one at his graduation. Mel came along for his match day. I don’t think there is a mom to reach. There is no cousin, no uncle, no fucking brother, alright? Just let it go.”
“He has no one,” Robby mutters, to himself more than anyone. He rubs a hand on his face, and thinks about how all the little details make a lot more sense now– the jutted bones, the eyebags, the permanent tension on his shoulders from handling the world alone. And then, simultaneously, how he has been growing into his skin, undoubtedly Trinity’s impact.Robby would’ve said he’s good at this stuff, stuff, recognising when someone needs help, when the seemingly well-fed child in the ER with two bows on her head is hiding an injury, when the young boy pretends to be sick to get a bed so he doesn’t have to spend another night on the street. When to call Kiara, when to lend a helping hand. Yet with Dennis, right under his nose, he’s been clueless.
“What do I look like?” Santos says, annoyed. “Just because we don’t spend time painting each other’s nails and talking about our shit parents doesn’t mean he’s not my friend.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Robby tries to de-escalate, talking to a stressed family member rather than one of his residents, “I’m glad he has you on his side. You know this is a rough job, Santos. I just– I didn’t know he didn’t have any family in Pittsburgh. Anyone to look out for him.”
“Do you?” she shots back.
Before Robby can answer, the door opens again. “The scan is over. Dr. Roy’s going to be over here in a second to take a look.”
He lingers there in the corridor for a little longer even when Trinity enters the room, seemingly out of words.
8.32
Dr. Roy emerges a while later, the scan results clutched between her fingers. She faces Robby with a grimace. “Is he one of yours?”
“First year resident,” Robby agrees.
She nods in sympathy. “The CT shows a linear fracture to the back of the skull. Good news is it's thin, away from suture lines and not depressed. We also didn’t see any evidence of epidural hematoma or a contusion, but we’ll play it safe and get him an MRI as well. However, I’m not happy with the pupils and vomiting. He should be under constant supervision for at least the next 24 hours to check for any CSF leakage, increased confusion or memory loss. Depending on everything, we’ll do a repeat CT in around six hours. Any questions?”
“Thank you, Dr. Roy,” Robby says, shaking her hand, while Santos stands perfectly still. “If he’s fine, why is he having fucking religious psychosis in there?”
“It’s too early to say anything definitive, but the scan is promising. Hopefully he will just come out of this with the worst headache of his life,” she assures, though Robby has been in the field for long enough to recognise the pity-smile. “He’s confused and in pain. Praying is not the most concerning thing I’ve seen a TBI patient do.”
“He’s terrified,” Trinity counters.
“Well, a terrifying thing just happened to him,” Dr Roy explains patiently. “He’s just been through a huge trauma, is in a great deal of pain, and confused. The extreme paranoia or confusion can indicate a more serious injury. It could also just be a very natural response to what he's been through. We’ll know more after seeing how his coherency progresses, but I’m sure you know this already. It’s difficult to be the doctor and the relative.”
“Thank you,” the resident says, her voice low. Robby can’t help but think how she sounds wholly defeated.
8.40
When he’s finally back to the ER, leaving Dennis with Santos awaiting an MRI, he sees significantly less chaos than he expects. He hears the man’s voice before he sees him. “Langdon, make sure South-15 gets an EEG.”
He walks towards him. “I don’t know how many more times I can say this,” Robby says to the man, “but I’m so happy to see you here, brother.”
Jack’s head snaps up, and his face softens. He claps a hand on Robby’s shoulder. “Don’t get excited. I only happened to forget my bag. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”
“On your day off again,” Robby adds, though his voice is too lifeless to carry the joke, “you should pick up a new hobby.”
Jack squeezes tighter. “How’s Whitaker?”
“Linear skull fracture,” he says, letting himself be guided to a quieter corner of the ED. “Should heal on its own if the MRI doesn’t show anything else, but he’s still not coherent.”
“It was quite a blow, from what I heard,” Jack says, “that’s to be expected. The scan’s a good sign.”
“Yeah, a blow from the man I left him alone with,” Robby responds this time. There’s a stabbing pain in his eye, the start of a headache that will undoubtedly haunt him throughout the rest of the shift. His chest constricts.
“What, so he should’ve cracked open your skull instead?”
Robby sends him a look, but he refrains from saying yes. He rubs his chest, trying to dissolve a knot that doesn’t exist. He blinks and blinks, yet the burning in his eyes stays. The noises of the ED start reaching him through a kaleidoscope.
“Mike,” Jack says quietly, steering them behind a small, curtained section of the room, “shit happens. You know it better than anyone. It’s the job that keeps on giving.” His thumb draws lines at his nape, tethering him to reality. Robby’s reminded of the time almost a year ago now, where Whitaker found him in Pedes. How he handled everything with kindness and secrecy, how he kept checking up on Robby in his own unsure, well-meaning way in the next few shifts.
“PTSD,” Robby continues.
“Traumatic brain injuries, apparently,” Jack says, but his face is serious. “Healthy doctor, healthy ED. The same goes for you too, you know? A resident was hurt during your shift. If you need to take five, no one is going to say anything.”
“I’ve taken twenty with him on the CT,” Robby argues. “This is my five.”
“If you want to go pretend to get some fresh air on the roof, it’ll conveniently take me a little longer to find that bag,” Jack says this time.
“Who called you anyway?”
“Langdon texted,” he shrugs. “Said you looked like shit.”
“Jack,” Robby says somberly. “I’m so tired. I’m so sick of watching my people get hurt. All the support workers and the nurses and Dana last year and Adamson and–”
“Calm down,” Jack tells him, the pressure on his nape increasing. He only realises his breaths quickened when he sees the other man’s exaggerated inhale. He cranes his neck to see whether he is visible to any curious onlookers, but Jack blocks his sight. “You are only a man, Robby. You have two hands. They can only reach so far.”
When Robby doesn’t answer, he continues. “There’s nothing anyone could’ve done differently if they were in your place. Not Adamson, not me, not Shen. Nobody. We can only keep going forward.”
Even if he doesn’t believe him, Robby lets himself stay next to the other man’s warmth just for a moment longer.
9.51
The waiting room becomes busier. They bring in six-year-old twins with anaphylactic shock due to their mutual peanut energy and a mishap at their elementary school. They do the rounds for the patients from the care home. Robby lets an MS3 suture a jagged arm wound. After the flurrying, he settles by the computer.
“Dr Whitaker is out of the MRI and is in a room,” Dana says to him, the phone still to her ear. “The waiting room looks sparse. I’m sure Langdon and Mohan can handle it for a few minutes.”
“You go ahead as well,” Perlah says to Dana, “we’ll be fine.” It must be the first time in history when someone takes over Dana’s responsibilities voluntarily. Dana squeezes her arm in response and trails after Robby.
They go up to the room where Santos is sitting criss-cross on the chair with a textbook on her lap. She looks up momentarily. Dana smiles at her. “Why don’t you grab something to drink, kid?”
She looks like she’d like to oppose, but she closes her book. “I’ll go let the others know what’s going on,” she finally says. “He needs supervision for pupil activity and seizures, and he keeps waking up confused and freaked out.”
“Dr. Santos,” Dana says, exasperated, “between the two of us, I’m sure we can manage. He’s in good hands. Go take a breather.”
With the blood on his face entirely cleaned, Dennis looks a little less gruesome, but the purple bruises settling around his eyes are not helping. “Poor kid,” Dana says quietly.
Robby’s feeling nauseous again.
As if he senses the discomfort, Dennis twitches in the bed, and his eyes blink open. “W-wha’?”
“Hey, honey,” Dana speaks to him. “Do you know where you are?”
Dennis groans and tries to get up on the bed, but promptly falls back. He groans loudly.
“You are fine,” Dana reassures. “You hit your head pretty good, but you’re okay now. How’s your pain?”
He keeps blinking owlishly, then brings an uncoordinated hand up to the bandages at the back of his head. Robby catches his wrist before he can slap himself on the head. “Let’s not do that. You just got some nice fresh sutures down there.”
“Dr. Robby?”
He smiles at the recognition, the knot in his stomach loosening just a bit. “Yeah, Whitaker. It’s me. How are you holding up?”
He slurs, still blinking. His pupils are still somewhat unequal, but the difference is much less noticeable. “Wha’ happ’n?”
“You hit your head,” Robby repeats.
“A’ the pew?” Dennis asks. His eyes dart around the room and gloss over Dana without recognition.
Robby tries to school his expression. “No, you were helping a patient out, but he freaked out and hit you. You fell and hit your head on a medical cart.”
“Di– did he get Elijah?”
Dana turns to him. “Is that the patient?” Robby shakes his head, growing concerned by his continued confusion. “Dennis, you are in Pittsburgh Medical Centre where you work as an ER resident. It’s September 2026. You got hurt helping a patient, and you have a concussion.”
His eyes dart to the older man again as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “Dr. Robby?” His face is scrunched in pain again.
“You’ll be fine, Dennis,” Robby tells him. “Just rest. It’s going to be fine.”
He keeps mumbling under his breath, growing increasingly agitated. “I can’t– I can’t–”
“Did he have any sedation?” Dana asks quietly. Robby shakes his head. “They want to be able to monitor his level of consciousness.”
“No, no, no,” Dennis says, his strained neck turned towards the ceiling. “The– the stars– Robby–”
“Take a deep breath, honey,” Dana tells him, trying to stop him from ripping the IV from his arm. Robby notes that his fists are clenched at odd angles as he twitches in the bed. He leans in, trying to make sense of his muttered words. “The stars, what about them?”
Dennis chokes out between short breaths. “I can’t– I can’t see any–” His eyes are darting around the room, unseeing.
“You are in a hospital room,” Robby reminds him gently.
“No, no, no,” Dennis whines. “Here. Here. No– no stars–” Suddenly, he perks up again, eyes wider than before, looking like they will bulge right out of their purple sockets. “Mom? Where’s mom?”
“You wanna see the stars?” Dennis keeps twitching and shaking in his spot, but he slows down just a second to look Robby in the eyes. Perhaps it’s only wishful thinking, but Robby thinks he sees a moment of recognition and clarity in there, and the boy nods. “Okay. That’s alright. You just have to go to the hills, kid, get away from the city. I’ll tell you what, you get better and get out of here, and I’ll take you there myself, alright?”
Dennis keeps staring at him, and Robby can’t tell if he recognises the words beyond his glassy eyes. “Everyone okay?”
“Yes, everyone else is fine,” Robby reassures him. “You will be fine too.”
“Dr. Robby,” Dennis slurs. There is an urgency deep in his voice, hidden by layers of pain and exhaustion. “Those– those are home stars.”
“After this, you certainly deserve some PTO, kid,” Robby tells him. Dennis shakes his head, then winces from the pain. “Never,” he manages to garble out before promptly passing out. “I can never go back.”
10.07
After tucking a blanket around him, Dana closes the door to Dr Whittaker’s room slowly to make sure he isn’t disturbed by the noise. She finds Robby there, looking inside through the glass panel on the door with an exhausted look on his face. “Is his family coming over?”
“No information on his family,” Robby says, “Dr. Santos is his emergency contact, and she thinks they are not in his life anymore.”
“That’s alright,” Dana tries to soothe, “we’ll take good care of him here.”
“God, Dana,” Robby says, his voice sounding awfully like a whine as he rubs his face again as if he’s too afraid to look on the hospital bed. “Look at that. He’s a fucking kid who got hurt in my ED, and he doesn’t even have a family to call.”
“He’s a 27 year old,” Dana tells him gently, “and this wasn’t your fault, Robby. It was nobody’s fault. How were you supposed to know that the unresponsive stabbing victim was high on PCP?”
“I didn’t look like this when I was 27,” he deflects with the barest hint of humour in his voice. Despite the persistent guilt crawling inside his skin like a parasite, he’s very quickly reaching his limit for heart-to-hearts.
Dana looks at him, then back at the body in the bed, and shrugs in agreement. “No. He looks like a baby.” She grabs Robby’s shoulder. “But he’s not, and he’ll be fine. He’s a tough cookie, and he’s a good doctor. He’s not your responsibility.”
“Everyone in that ER is my responsibility,” Robby argues. “Look me in the eye and tell me if Adamson would miss that one of his residents was possibly estranged from his family, alone in a state and in between places under his ER. You need healthy doctors to run a healthy ER.”
“You are not Adamson,” Dana tells him, “and even he wasn’t a god, Robby. Sometimes you just have to wait for someone to ask for help. And look, he still managed to crack Santos’s shell, graduate and get matched here for residency. He’s been fine, and he will be fine after this.”
Robby is once again reminded of the moment in Pedes. It’s difficult to explain to Dana why he simply had to do more, because Dennis has done so for him without even knowing him. He stays quiet instead.
“He will be fine, Robby,” Dana reiterates, “and so will you.”
11.26
Dennis wakes up with a start after arduous dreams of his childhood church. His mouth is dry and everything aches. He doesn’t know whether he’s been crying in his sleep or the tears have just started to fall out.
“Morning, Huckleberry,” someone calls out to him. Someone. He dreams of moving his head to face the owner of the voice, but all of his muscles throb in protest.
“Back to the land of living?” Trinity asks again. That’s right. That’s who it is.
“‘Rin,” he tries out. It feels familiar.
Wordlessly, she drops an ice chip on his dried lips. “Do you know where you are?”
He senses that he should really know the answer to this question, but he cannot form the words. He looks at the white walls surrounding him, the bright fluorescent, the sterile smell. “Hos-hospital,” he finally says, though it’s as if his brain is following from behind, layers of molasses stretched between his thoughts and words.
“That’s right,” Trinity says. Dennis cannot tell what it is, but he is almost entirely sure that there is an edge to her voice that he doesn’t recognise. “You have a concussion, you cracked your skull but your CT and MRI were clean.”
Involuntarily, Dennis lets out a whine from the back of his throat, suddenly overwhelmed by the big words. CT and MRI get lost in syrup inside his head before they can reach him. He tries to turn his body to face Trinity frantically. “Cracked m-my brain?”
“Thin, non-depressed, linear. You’ll be fine,” Trinity says as she gets up from the plastic chair to lean over him. “Calm down before you agitate your head, Huckleberry.”
“No, no,” Dennis rejects. He blindly paws at the IV line on his arm, trying to pull it out of his arm and pull himself up at the same time. Trinity leans over and swats his arms away. “Dennis, what the hell are you doing? Lean back before you fall and give yourself another concussion.”
“I can’t– no hospitals,” he tries to explain. “Can’t afford it. I’ll– I’ll figure it out. I’m a med student. I think.”
Trinity forces him to lay flat with a palm on his chest, and considering he’s weaker than a drunk toddler, it’s an easy battle. “Dennis, you are a resident now. In-house is fully covered by your insurance. Lay back down.”
“You sure?” he rasps, realising just how exhausted he feels when his head hits the pillow again.
“Yes,” Trinity tells him. “Please, just go back to sleep so I can finish this chapter.”
Dennis, for once, indulges himself. “Trinity,” he says, begging, small and pitiful like a child.
“What now?”
“Stay,” Dennis asks, afraid of hearing the answer. His voice trails off at the end, his fingers grow cold. “Please.”
Then, a warm palm wraps around his freezing one. “Where else would I go?” She holds his hand like she’s trying to squeeze the fear and hurt right out of him. This time, even for a little bit, falling asleep feels peaceful.
12.21
In his dreams, Dennis is at the farm again. It always starts like this. The weather is suffocatingly warm. He’s wearing knee length rubber boots as he mucks the stalls. His mother promised to make mac and cheese if he finishes everything today.
He doesn’t realise he brings any mud inside until his father grips him by the back of his neck, swinging him until his back hits the wooden doorsill. It’s all very fuzzy really, everything but his mother’s voice that night as he laid in bed. “You should leave, Dennis,” she says, tracing the blooming bruises on his back, “and be something we can’t.”
13.24
Dennis wakes up to someone’s gentle hand on his shoulder and immediately starts crying. He feels simultaneously too tired and too much in pain to give a substantial response, too weary to even open his mouth, so the tears slowly trickle down to his temple. His face throbs violently, and there is a stabbing pain emanating from the back of his skull to his entire head, as if something is bouncing inside, hitting each corner and crevice. Then, the shaky breaths draw his attention to his chest, which seems to be on fire.
“Hey, Dr Whitaker. Dennis, can you hear me?”
Dennis blinks but he can’t see anything through the tears. Someone snipes against the voice. Dennis tries to bring his hands to his ears to avoid the noise. “Congratulations, Langdon, you made him fucking cry.”
“Shut up, Santos,” the voice says. “We have to check your symptoms, Whitaker. Special orders from Dr. Robby, as apparently no one on this floor knows basic concussion follow-up. You know the drill.”
“He doesn’t know anything, shithead, he has a concussion,” the woman responds.
“Okay, children,” a third voice says sternly. “Either be quiet or leave the room. You are agitating him.”
Some more bickering goes around, but Dennis cannot tell the voices apart. The ache in his head is so sharp he thinks he will throw up again. He tries to alert someone but his limbs are too slow and his mouth does not cooperate, leaving him to moan weakly. “Oh, honey,” the voice says, and Dennis knows he knows that voice, it’s so familiar, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but the blinding pain makes everything hazy. “You are in a lot of pain, aren’t you? You are due for another dose of Tylenol in a bit, but we can’t give you anything stronger until they’re sure you’re in the clear. I’m sorry, kiddo.”
Through his bleary eyes, Dennis sees a small, silver cross dangle close to his face, followed by a kind face. “You think you’re up for a few questions honey? Just try your best.”
The man speaks up again. “Can you tell me your full name and your date of birth?”
Dennis Whitaker, he thinks to himself. That’s easy enough. However, when he opens his mouth, the only word that comes out is a rasp, “Hurts.” Even the small movement of his jaw sends a shock through his brain. Gentle fingers land on his forehead, but it feels like they are burning through his skin. Dennis wails and writhes, trying to get away. “Don’ – don’t touch me,” he pleads, his voice sounding like a wounded animal's, primal and agonised. “Ge’ away.”
He blinks. The stars are brighter than ever. The door to the house is locked and they won’t let him in. He sobs or begs or chokes in pain. He blinks. He’s in a white room, surrounded by concerned faces and concerned hands and concerned voices. Nights start turning freezing in Broken Bow around this time of the year. Dennis feels his fingertips grow colder and colder.
The nausea doubles and he tastes bile. Desperate, he tries to ask for help, or thinking he’d felt something akin to gentleness mere minutes ago but he is overcome by pain when he gags, and the world is covered by a blinding light entirely.
13.26
“Can we consult neuro again?” Dana asks with a tut, trying to stop Dennis from removing his IV again. “I think he might have a bit of a fever.” Under her hands, there are small beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. He keeps writhing and grunting.
“I want to see his vitals again,” Langdon orders. However, just as Dana puts the blood pressure cuff on his arm, Dennis lets out a blood curdling scream and cowers down. “Dennis, stop, stop,” Trinity tries to intervene, to stop him from agitating his head wound further, but he shouts again, slurred and unintelligible.
“Dr. Santos, he says don’t touch me,” Dana says.
“Can we push some ativan? Midazolam? Fucking anything? He’s clearly hurting himself,” Santos shouts.
“We can’t do jackshit without a neuro consultation,” Langdon says. He looks conflicted, like he’s caught in mid-action, unsure of what his next step should be. For a moment, they are not healthcare professionals, doctors or nurses. They are simply there, watching a friend or colleague wreck himself apart in pain. Then, simultaneously, they blink out of the trance as Dennis throws up, then lies completely still like a puppet with its strings cut. “Shit, shit, shit,” Trinity shouts while Langdon leaps forward.
“Page neuro now,” he says to Dana. “Santos, out.”
“He’s choking, dipshit,” she says, refusing to move away from the body. After she positions Dennis in the recovery position, she tilts his head and lifts his chin. Dennis, who is either up from the pain or the consciousness that he cannot breathe, makes a gurgling sound at the back of his throat even though his body stays pliant. “Come on,” Santos whispers to him as she can’t locate what’s obstructing the airway. “Come on, Huckleberry. Just cough it out.”
Meanwhile, Langdon rips a Yankauer suction tube out of the sterile package and yanks Trinity out of the way. After a second, Dennis sucks in a shuddering breath and coughs, then winces at the movement as Langdon pulls the tube out of his throat. Trinity pushes Langdon away again to try to speak to Dennis. “You’re fine,” she mutters over and over again, wiping his mouth and trying to calm his shuddering breaths. Just then, Dana barges back in with Dr. Robby in tow. “What the hell happened?”
“He woke up, said he was in pain and started aspirating on his own vomit,” Langdon says in a clipped voice, seemingly too shaken up to even try to joke. “Airway cleared with suction, he is back to breathing on his own.”
Trinity refuses to look up from the body, wiping Whitaker’s face with trembling hands. “He’s tachy,” Trinity says. “Awake but not alert. He–” Her voice trails off. “Let me do that,” Dana says, and forces her to let go of the soiled gauze.
“We need another CT,” Trinity says, her voice awfully shaky, “I think– it might be an intracranial hemorrhage.”
“He might just be throwing up from pain or motion sickness,” Langdon argues, though his voice lacks the usual snark.
She shakes her head. “No, you don’t get it. He’s deteriorating. Last time he woke up, he was a lot more coherent.”
Robby intervenes. “How so?”
“He recognized me, recognized that he was in PTMC, got stressed about his fucking medical bills. He was– he was just Dennis, okay? Look at him now.”
Robby exhales and rubs a hand over his face, looking almost as exhausted as the body in the bed. “Santos, I don’t want you performing any medical procedures on Whitaker again, do you hear me? I don’t care if it’s a paper cut, you will call one of us.”
“He was choking,” she shoots back, frustrated.
“Show me your hands,” Robby says, pointing at the white-knuckled, shaking fingers which she conveniently tries to hide the second the words leave his mouth. “That’s what I thought. I’m not trying to be cruel. It’s not ethical, it’s dangerous for him, it’s torture for you. Just let someone else handle it.”
“Robby,” Dana calls out from the side of the bed in a quiet voice. “I think our patient might like some peace and quiet until his scan.”
“Santos, take five. Langdon, go back to the Pitt and make sure nothing explodes. And thank you, Dana,” he says. The two look at each other like chided kids, then mumble in unison before they leave the room, “Thank you, Dana.” Even after the door closes, their bickering voices echo in the corridor.
13.29
There is a big hand on his face, rough and warm, keeping his head still as Dennis tries to move. “I know you are in pain,” the voice whispers to him, “but you need to stay on your side in case you throw up again.”
To his demise, Dennis can only whimper at this. The pain is so all-consuming, so deep within his body that he finds it difficult to form coherent sentences.
“We’ll push some more acetaminophen through the IV so your throat can have some rest.” That sounds nice, he thinks to himself. “I’m so sorry, Dennis,” the voice continues,” I am so, so sorry that this happened to you.” Dennis wishes he could say it was okay.
He blinks and finds that the light is not as blinding now that the man’s stature is blocking most of it coming from overheard. He must have seen Dennis’s eyes move, because next, the man turns to speak to someone else in the room. “Dana, turn off the overhead light completely, please.” A second later, the room grows significantly darker. The pain ebbs and flows. The fear gnaws at his stomach.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” the voice whispers, soft and gravely. “‘You know where you are, Dennis?”
Dennis hums. He’s in some sort of hospital. He hit his head. Hard. “Pitt,” he says shortly, and only recognises the word after he says it out loud. That’s right. He works in the Pitt, which is the ED of PTMC. His name is Dennis Whitaker, and he is a resident there, and this is his attending physician, Dr. Robinavitch. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he thinks he might have felt embarrassed that the man is here on his knees, trying to calm Dennis like he’s a little child.
“That’s right, kid,” Dr. Robby says. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Head,” he responds this time. “Hurts.”
“That’s right. You hit your head. You are still a little tachycardic and your pulse ox dipped to 93% so we had to set-up an NC to make sure your brain can get enough oxygen. When Dr. Roy is here, we’ll ask if we can up the dose for your sedative or pain meds so we can make you a little more comfortable. You’ll also have another scan so we can make sure everything is going alright in there, but I think you are just tired and in a lot of pain.”
Dennis hums. All of these terms sound vaguely familiar to him, and in his gut he senses the man is correct in his words.
“Yeah. I think we’ll see in the scan that you are just fine,” the man reassures in a soft voice. The motionless hand is still resting on Dennis’s head to keep him still. “You just got a little scared, but it’s okay. We got you, Dennis. You just hang in there, alright?”
He hums again. “Okay,” he murmurs. His throat burns.
“Good boy,” the man says right as he slips back to sleep. “Rest now.” Once again, Dennis is asleep.
14.07
He knows he is getting his CT scan before he opens his eyes. The humming of the machine is familiar, and he feels less afraid now. He pretends he’s just a little kid, and his mother is waiting for him outside. He wonders if this is what dying would feel like– agony and serenity, a strange calmness, a paralysing yearning for your mother’s arms, all at once.
When he drifts, his mother smiles at him, her face clearer than it has looked in months. “It’s okay,” she tells him. He’s forgiven.
14.07
In the observation room overlooking the CT scan, multiple people wrestle to speak to the microphone. “Just keep still, Huckleberry,” Trinity says, “it’ll be over in a minute.”
“It’s okay,” Robby adds. “We’re right here."
*
Do you remember coming to the hospital when I was 14?
My friends all left me there spinning, Dad was angry
But you saw everything
And you made me laugh as the nurses undressed me
You held my hand as they put the needle in me
*
15.53
It takes her two more rounds of wailing awakenings for Trinity to realise just how scared Dennis is, trapped inside his head in a dream she will never understand. This stupid little mouse-looking, surprisingly handy, incredibly kind, stupid, stupid boy who somehow wiggled his way into her life and her house and her– everything. It just would’ve been easier if she was the one in bed. Huckleberry is not made for this, and Trinity just cannot stand the awful, pained noises he makes. Most of all, she hates that all she can do is wait for it to pass. So, Trinity grabs his hand and decides to read her textbook aloud. He should be glad, really, for the free exam revision.
She only hopes that the incoherency means he won’t remember all the times he startled awake, begging for salvation or his mother. Whichever comes first.
18.47
“This is the last one,” someone says as they gently shake Dennis’s shoulder. “You pass this with flying colors, and I promise I’ll let you sleep.”
Someone else from closer to Dennis speaks. “They sent you this time?”
“I won the rock-paper-scissors,” the voice explains, “and believe me, there were multiple people ready to fight me for it. Everybody is concerned about our boy here.” After the words, strong, slender fingers ghost on Dennis’s forehead, sweeping locks of sweaty hair away. He misses his mother so much it burns a hole through his stomach.
He blearily blinks his eyes open, trapped in a strange sense of deja-vu. The overhead lights. The paper-like blanket. He is in a hospital bed. This is not his mother. It’s Dr Mckay, looking at him with a compassion his mother hasn’t been capable of showing in years.
“Come on, big boy,” she nudges again. “Name and surname.”
“Dennis,” he rasps, but his mouth is too dry to continue. He turns his head ever so slightly to the right, trying to point at the jug of water. “Yeah, you need some chapstick, Huckleberry,” Trinity says as Cassie helps him tilt his head and get a meager gulp of water. When he turns his head, he also sees that the little table by the door is covered in cards and a few bouquets of flowers.
“From your admirers,” Cassie jokes, shining a penlight in his eyes. “You have a lot of people rooting for you.” He tries his best to not flinch away from the light, biting his lip to keep a whine in. “Okay, Dennis. Where are you and what’s the date?”
“PTMC. Thursday. Concussed,” he lists. The stabbing pain in his head dulled into a throb, which hurts less but makes speaking feel like his head is being put through a meat grinder.
“That’s good, kid,” Cassie beams. “And who am I?”
“Dr Mckay,” Dennis says, already feeling himself slip back into sleep. “And Trinity.”
“Good job,” Trinity says with the inflection of a nursery teacher. “You’ll get a sticker.” When he falls asleep, one his hands is still cocooned in hers.
20.11
A soft knock on the door pulls Dennis out of his half-asleep stupor. Through his bleary eyes, he sees that Trinity is still sitting on the same chair, watching something from her phone. Even the dimmed lights in the room seem brighter now that the sun’s gone down. Dennis’s head throbs.
Following the knock, two figures enter the room. “Hey there,” a quiet voice speaks, and after a few rounds of blinking Dennis can pinpoint the source as Mel. “How are you doing, Dennis?”
“ ‘m okay,” Dennis rasps, though speaking hurts every single muscle on his face.
“We brought some stuff for you,” she says kindly, and only then Dennis remembers the second figure, who reveals herself to be an eagerly-waving Becca. She leaves a carton bag of something on his bedside table, then extends the other one to Trinity.
“I’m not the one who cracked my skull,” Trinity argues.
“Stop saying that,” Dennis croaks out.
“Sharing is caring,” Becca says.
“Yes,” Mel agrees. “And, caretaking is difficult.” Then, she turns to her sister. “When we were grabbing you guys some food, Becca said we should get you some company if you are going to be in bed for a while.” Then, both sisters nod in unison.
“It’s called a Squishmallow,” Becca supplies as she shoves a round, grey plushie of a mouse on his arms.
“Look, Huckleberry, it’s you,” Trinity mocks.
“Oh, and also this,” Mel adds, rummaging through her bags to pull out what looks like a huge set of headphones. “They are noise-cancelling. You might get some sensory sensitivity, and we had a few of these lying around.” She sets the headphones by the bed and pats them once.
“Thank you, guys,” Dennis says, barely getting the words out with the emotion clogging his throat.
“Of course,” Mel says, her voice impossibly soft, “we’ll let you guys get some rest. Call me if you need anything.” The last sentence is directed at Trinity.
“Hey,” Trinity says as Mel heads for the door. “Eat with us. I’m sure Mr. TBI over there can handle some dinner entertainment.”
If he wasn’t afraid it would make him throw up again, Dennis would’ve rolled his eyes. Instead, he lets Mel place the headphones over his head with a pair of black sunglasses, and listens to Becca recount her day as he manages a few spoonfuls of miso soup and plain crackers. When he falls asleep, the whispered chatter keeps the nightmares away.
04.12
Dennis wakes up with a start, having dreamt of a precipice or a childhood night.
Before he can even get disoriented, before he can open his eyes, a large, warm hand presses on his forehead, forcing his head back on the pillow. “It’s alright,” the voice whispers. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”
Slowly, very slowly, Dennis blinks. He tries to get a grip of his surroundings. His head throbs awfully. Then, he remembers moments from the last twenty-four hours. Blood running down his face. Trinity whispering to him. Mel and Becca with soup. “I– hit my head,” he rasps, but it sounds more like a question.
“That’s right,” the voice tells him, low and gravelly.
“Dr. Robby?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. No light enters through the drawn curtains. In the soft fluorescent coming from under the door, the older man is only a shadow. “I threatened Dr. Santos to go home, take a nap and come back with some stuff for you as she’s insisting she’ll come to work today. It’s still very early. Go back to sleep.”
Dennis hums. “You should sleep too,” he says, though he still slurs a little from the heaviness in his bones, the dryness of his mouth.
“I’m alright,” Dr. Robby says. “Glad to hear you up, kid. You gave us quite a scare.”
“Sorry,” Dennis says, his eyelids growing heavy again. They must finally be allowing him to get more sedatives through the IV drip.
“Not your fault,” the man says, clasping Dennis’s shoulder. “I should be the one saying that, kid. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“ ‘s alright,” Dennis tells him. “Thick skull. Trinity says so.”
Dr Robby chuckles. “I’m just very glad to see you’re doing alright.”
Dennis hums again.
“Trinity will be back soon,” he continues, his voice softer than Dennis has ever heard. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”
Dennis feels slightly sobered up. In his haze, his mother’s birthday has passed. The gears turn in his head. He can say his parents would fret too much, or that they are busy, out of the country, that he is fine now so it’s not necessary. Somehow, he finds himself too weary to lie. “No,” he says simply. “No one to call.”
"Who's Elijah?" Dennis perks up. "You mentioned him at one point," Dr Robby says. His voice still has that sweet edge to it, like when he speaks to bereaved parents or little children.
"My brother," Dennis admits, too tired to be embarrassed. "He's away." It's not a lie entirely.
“That’s alright,” Dr. Robby says. Dennis lets his eyes close, more to pretend he cannot speak than to sleep. He doesn’t realise he’s shivering until a heavy-weight blanket lands on him, covering him from chin to toe. “You are a good doctor, Dennis,” Robby tells him. “You are resilient, smart and kind. We are all lucky to have you here at the Pitt.”
“Thank you,” Dennis whispers. He only realises there are fat tears waiting on his waterline when he blinks.
“This is a difficult job. If it ever gets too difficult, you have people who can take some of that load. Just ask. Me, Dana, Jack, Kiara, anyone. Alright?”
Dennis hums again, unable to speak.
“Rest, now. I’ll be here.” Through the blanket, Dennis can still feel the warmth of a hand resting on his shoulder. Right before he falls asleep, like an echo, Dr. Robby speaks again. “We’ll all be here.”
Dennis believes him wholeheartedly.