x
Evan navigated the hospital lot with tense precision, every bump rattling through his body. His eyes darted, scanning for an open space among the sea of cars. His heart pounded, frustration mounting.
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“Damn it! Where the hell am I supposed to park?” he muttered, voice tight.
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From the truck bed, his mother shouted, urgent and sharp. “Just pull up to the entrance!”
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His grip on the wheel clenched, knuckles white as he veered toward the front—only to hit a wall of stalled cars and frantic drivers just like him. With no choice and honking behind him, Evan threw the truck into park and bolted for the hospital doors.
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Inside, chaos reigned supreme. The air was thick with a cacophony of moans, groans, and the occasional wail of distress. Nurses and front desk staff rushed around, their faces marked by fatigue and determination. A frazzled staff member stood at the brink, confronting a line of restless people stretching into the distance.
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Evan stood frozen in the chaos, the press of people closing in. He tried to speak, but his voice vanished into the noise. “Hey, ma’am, I—” The words fell flat, drowned by the flurry of movement around him.
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Nurses in scrubs rushed past, too locked in crisis to notice his quiet plea. The sheer volume of people, the urgency—it all pressed down on him, triggering his instinct to withdraw.
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But desperation overpowered habit.
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He stepped forward, grabbed a nurse’s shoulder. His voice cracked, louder than he'd meant—but he didn’t care.
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“Ma’am, can you PLEASE help me? My brother and nephew are in my truck—serious head and neck wounds! They need help. Now!”
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The panic cut through him, sharper than fear, louder than hesitation.
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The nurse gently but firmly removed his hand, her tone brisk but not unkind.
“I’m sorry, sir—I really am—but I have a trauma case I’m assigned to right now. Please go to the front desk and let them know. Someone will be with you as soon as possible.”
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As she turned to leave, Evan’s voice cracked. “It’s a child, ma’am! Do you have no sympathy?”
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She stopped, turned back, her expression calm but firm.
“Sir, I’m currently treating a newborn with a head injury. Her mother’s on life support. One might not make it. Maybe neither.”
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Her eyes didn’t soften. “So yes, I do have sympathy. A lot of it. But I also have priorities. If you’d like, I can introduce you to the father in the waiting room—he’s been there all night, waiting to hear if his family survives. You can tell him why you should go first.”
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Evan was left speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "I... I'm sorry-"
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Before he could finish, she was gone, her pace quickening as she melded back into the chaos.
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He took a moment to gather himself, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside.
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Evan scanned the waiting room, eyes landing on an older man with a bald head, a scruffy beard, and the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke and stale liquor. A makeshift sling cradled his arm.
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Evan hesitated, then stepped closer. “Did we really just have an earthquake here?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.
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The old man didn’t even look up at first. When he did, his reply was dry and raspy. “No shit, Sherlock.”
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“In Florida, of all places,” Evan muttered, trying to inject some humor. “That’s just… wild.”
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“Yup,” the old man grunted, eyes already drifting elsewhere.
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Evan glanced around, anxiety pressing on his chest. “Sir, do you think I could—”
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“Don’t think so, pal,” the man cut in, narrowing his eyes.
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“Please, I just—”
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“What makes you so special?” he snapped, twisting around. The stench of booze and cigars hit Evan full force.
“Ya don’t even look hurt. What're doing here?”
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The man jabbed a finger into Evan’s chest.
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Evan’s temper snapped. He slapped the finger away. “It's not me! My brother and nephew are in my truck—head injuries! I’m trying to get them help!”
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"Yeah, well, they ain't the only ones hurtin'," the old man retorted.
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Evan snapped. “Hey, you old fart! My brother’s unconscious and bleeding out, and my ten-year-old nephew’s right there with him! I think you’ve had enough beer to numb your arm long enough to let a kid with a head injury go ahead of you, you crusty old piece of shit!”
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The man turned slowly, his expression unreadable—almost blank. Evan tensed, suddenly unsure if this was about to turn into a fight.
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Then the old man burst into raspy laughter, his whole body shaking.
“BAHAHAHA! Well, shit, son! I think you’re right!” He broke into a wet, hacking smoker’s cough, wiped his mouth, and pulled out a battered flask. One swig later, he added, “Hell, I probably don’t got much time left anyway. Let that little boy go ahead of this old turd.”
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He stepped aside with a crooked grin.
“Shit, you look like you need this more than me. And for the record—wasn’t beer. Whiskey.” He held out the flask.
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Evan blinked. “N-no, thank you,” he said, waving it off—though, if he was honest, the offer almost sounded nice.
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Something shifted in Evan. For once, standing his ground hadn’t backfired—it had worked. The old man’s laughter, the way people actually listened—it hit him harder than expected. Maybe his voice did matter. Maybe retreating wasn’t the only way to survive chaos.
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He turned back toward the waiting area with a flicker of resolve, ready for whatever came next.
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A few nearby had seen the whole thing. A younger man with a sling gave Evan a nod and stepped aside. Two women—one with a bandaged leg, the other with gauze over one eye—traded glances, a mix of wariness and quiet empathy, and let him through. Others followed suit, parting to make room without protest.
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For the first time all night, the world didn’t feel like it was pushing him back.
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Despite the small victories, reality set in fast. Even after cutting ahead of eight people, there were still over twenty more in front of him.
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His pulse quickened as he scanned the room, eyes landing on a short woman with vibrant red hair and an overwhelming wave of cherry blossom perfume. She rocked back and forth, visibly agitated.
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Evan stepped toward her, ready to make his case—until something over her shoulder stopped him cold.
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Wait… was that a baby?
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He leaned in slightly. Wrapped tightly in a blanket, a tiny infant rested against her chest. Gauze circled the baby's head, faint crimson patches seeping through the white.
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“Oh God,” he breathed, the weight hitting him all at once.
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The woman turned, her tear-filled blue eyes wide with panic. Lipstick smeared, eyeliner streaking down her cheeks.
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“M-my baby,” she choked out, trembling. “I was walking down the steps when it hit... I tried to hold on, but I fell—on top of him. I... I didn’t mean to...” Her voice cracked, dissolving into sobs.
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Evan’s chest tightened. “Oh my God,” he whispered, instinctively placing a hand on her back. For a moment, his own panic vanished. He glanced at the line—too long. Way too long.
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This can’t wait.
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He raised his voice, louder than he thought possible.
“THIS WOMAN HAS A BABY WITH A HEAD INJURY! SHE NEEDS HELP—NOW!”
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The room went still. Heads turned. Phones lowered. Eyes locked on them.
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The woman looked at him, stunned, gratitude flickering through her tears. Then she turned to the crowd, voice cracking, “Please! My baby!”
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One by one, the line began to part like the Red Sea. Evan guided her forward, a firm hand pressed against her back, trying to maintain a sense of urgency and purpose. Yet, as he advanced, a nagging thought invaded his mind-
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Am I skipping ahead, taking advantage of the situation?
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But he shook it off, focusing on the priority at hand. "Please, everyone, make way! The young are top priority!"
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They reached the front desk, where the administrator, wide-eyed and flustered, immediately called for a doctor. Within minutes, the woman and her baby were handed a clipboard with paperwork before being whisked away to the other side of the hospital, the entire waiting area watching in silence.
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Suddenly, a voice shouted from behind, "Hey! You can't skip the lin—"
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But before the complaint could fully form, Evan's voice rang out, drowning it out.
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"I HAVE A FATHER WITH SEVERE TRAUMA TO HIS HEAD AND NECK, AND A TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY WHO IS BLEEDING PROFUSELY! I NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION-RIGHT NOW!"
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"Okay, sir," the desk administrator stammered, her hands trembling as she handed him a thick packet on a clipboard. "If you could please fill this out..."
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Evan's blood began to boil as he glanced down at the paperwork, feeling the heat rise in his chest.
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"ARE YOU SHITTING ME? I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS! NONE OF US HAVE TIME FOR THIS! I HAVE A CHILD BLEEDING OUT OF THE HEAD! CAN'T THIS BE DONE LATER?!?"
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"I'm s-sorry, sir, it's protocol," she stuttered, her face flushed with panic, looking as if she might faint at any moment.
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Just as the corners of his vision began to darken, a tight grip on his shoulder brought him back. He turned to find the familiar face of the nurse he had encountered earlier, the one who had been with the mother and baby in critical condition.
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"Do they need a stretcher?" she asked, urgency lacing her voice.
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"Yes!" Evan exclaimed, relief flooding through him.
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"WE NEED TWO STRETCHERS!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.
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"Give me that!" With a swift motion, she snatched the paperwork and clipboard from him, letting the pen fall to the floor.
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Moments later, two male nurses arrived with stretchers.
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“Take them to the room—the paperwork will be ready,” she said said, then nodded to the front desk administrator before hurrying off.
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Evan bolted toward the exit, the nurses close behind. As he rounded the corner of the truck, he stopped short—his breath caught.
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Essiya was sitting up in the truck bed, wide-eyed and alert.
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“OH THANK GOD, FINALLY!” his mother cried, voice cracking with relief. “Essiya’s awake!”
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“Essi—”
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“Is the adult male the one with the neck injury?” one nurse cut in, focused.
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“Y-yeah,” Evan said quickly.
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“Alright, we’ll load him first. Carefully.”
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The two nurses worked in sync, lifting Donovan onto the stretcher with practiced precision. Once Essiya was secured as well, they turned back to Evan and his mother.
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“Follow us.”
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Back inside, the chaos hadn’t lessened. Crowds pressed in from all sides.
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Beside him, his mother gasped. “Oh my goodness, Evan... we need to pray for these people. It’s packed in here.”
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“Yeah,” Evan muttered, still catching his breath. “I basically had to make a scene to get us this far. Otherwise, we’d still be halfway through that line.”
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As they passed the ever-growing queue, Evan caught sight of the old bald man staring at him intently. As their eyes met, the man chuckled softly, raising his flask in a mock toast before taking another swig. Evan couldn't help but nod back.
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They finally reached their room. One of the male nurses opened the door, motioning Evan and his mother inside just as Donovan was wheeled down a separate hall.
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The door clicked shut behind them, dulling the chaos outside, though the tension still clung to the air.
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“Alright,” the nurse said, gently transferring Essiya to the exam table and moving the stretcher aside, “I’d love to tell you the doctor will be right in—but we’re overwhelmed. A lot of our staff are injured too. All I can promise is someone will see you as soon as possible.” He pointed to the clipboard on the table. “Filling this out might help move things along.”
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“Okay, thank you,” Evan and his mother said in near unison, voices taut with anxious hope.
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Once the nurse left, Evan sat down and began filling out the paperwork, pen moving quickly despite his nerves. His mother knelt beside Essiya, brushing his hair back gently as she whispered a quiet prayer.
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As Evan focused on the forms, he tilted his head back, rubbing his eyes.
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"Gosh darn it!" his mother exclaimed, snapping him out of his thoughts.
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"What?" Evan asked, momentarily distracted.
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"I forgot my purse and my phone at home! I wanted to call some of our family to make sure they're okay."
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"I think I brought mine," Evan said, reaching into his pocket, only to find it empty. "Damn it! I must have left it in the truck. I'll be right back."
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"Okay, honey," she replied, a hint of worry creeping into her voice.
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As he turned to leave the room, the weight of the situation pressed down on him amidst the chaos of the hospital, but he knew he had to keep moving.
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As Evan closed the door behind him, he turned to leave—only to feel arms wrap around him from behind, stopping him in his tracks. The familiar scent of cherry blossom hit him instantly.
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He froze. Something delicate but firm clung to his chest. He looked down—an arm, pale and almost translucent under the harsh hospital lights. Beaded bracelets dangled from her wrist, their bright colors stark against faint bruises beneath.
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A soft, shaky voice whispered against his back.
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“Th-thank you... so much.”
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He turned, startled, heart racing—only to find himself face to face with the young mother. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears, mascara trailing like ink down her cheeks. And yet, in all the exhaustion and chaos, there was warmth.
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Cherry blossom.
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“You—you helped me,” she said, voice cracking. “I don’t know what I would've done. Without you, we’d still be waiting.”
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Evan rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy.
“Oh. It was nothing, really. I just... saw your baby and—I don’t know. Felt like someone had to say something.” He let out a breath. “Honestly, it was kind of... freeing.”
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She smiled through the tears, her shoulders relaxing. “Well, thanks to you, my baby’s going to be okay.”
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He shook his head. “That’s all the doctor. I just cleared the way.”
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“The doctor said there’s no major internal damage,” she said, relief pouring from her voice. “Just a few stitches—he’ll be fine.”
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Evan let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “That’s... amazing. I can’t imagine how stressful that was.”
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Karen reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a crisp business card, sliding it into his hand with practiced precision.
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“I owe you a significant debt of gratitude,” she said, her voice smoothing into something more professional. “I’m an attorney—criminal defense and civil litigation. If you ever find yourself in legal trouble—charges, wrongful accusations, even just a nasty dispute—call me. No consultation fees, no red tape.”
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Evan looked down at the card: Karen Bridges, Attorney at Law.
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He nodded, slipping it into his pocket. “Thanks. I’m Evan, by the way.”
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She offered a firm handshake and a half-smile. “Duly noted, Evan. And again—thank you. What you did back there? That wasn’t nothing.”
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They exchanged goodbyes, and Evan made his way back to the truck.
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“Man… I’m a regular celebrity today,” he muttered, unlocking the door and pulling out his phone.
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The cracked screen flickered to life—over thirty texts, nearly fifty missed calls. Most were from relatives trying to reach his mom.
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He scrolled through the chaos, then stopped at one message that made him exhale a breath of relief.
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Babe, if you’re dead, I’m going to kill you!
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A smirk crept onto his face.
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Kyra.
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He hit call. It barely rang twice.
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“¡Dios mío, Evan! Are you okay?!” she burst out. “You weren't answering! I was freaking out!”
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He chuckled tiredly, leaning against the truck door. “I’m alright, babe. Sorry I didn’t pick up. Everything’s been chaos.”
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“I saw the news! An earthquake in Florida?! That’s loco! Are you sure you’re okay? Like—no cracked ribs or buried under rubble or some Final Destination shit?”
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He ran a hand through his hair, gaze distant. “It’s… more complicated. We had to rush my brother to the hospital. And Essiya, too.”
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Silence. Then her voice softened.
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“¿Qué? Oh my God… mi amor, I’m so sorry. What happened? Are they okay?”
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“Essiya woke up—he’s stable. But Donovan... we still don’t know. The hospital’s slammed. Everyone’s overwhelmed.”
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She let out a shaky sigh. “Pobrecito. I wish I was there. I’d be right next to you, holding your hand... and cursing out anyone who got in the way.”
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He smiled, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah… I wish you were here too.”
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They talked a little longer—her voice grounding him like a tether to something safe. She cracked jokes, slipped in Spanish nicknames, reminded him to breathe.
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Eventually, he glanced at the screen. “Babe, I gotta go. My mom needs my phone. She left hers at home.”
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“Okay,” she said, reluctant. “But text me, call me, send a pigeon—whatever. Just keep me posted, ¿sí?”
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“I will. Love you.”
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“Te amo.”
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Click.
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Evan’s steps dragged as he headed back toward the entrance. Every muscle ached, exhaustion clinging to him like wet cement.
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Just as he reached the doors, a voice called out.
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“Hey, kid!”
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He turned, brow furrowing.
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Leaning against a trash can was the nurse—the one who’d helped get his family into a room. A cigarette dangled between her fingers. She took a long drag, then flicked it away and stood straighter.
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“Listen,” she said, voice rough but sincere, “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. That wasn’t professional.”
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Evan blinked, surprised. “Oh—no, it’s fine. Really. I snapped too. I get it… you’re all under a ton of pressure.”
He hesitated. “Thanks for helping us. My nephew and brother—I don’t think we’d have gotten in without you.”
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A faint smile tugged at her lips. “No problem, Mr…?” She glanced at the clipboard tucked under her arm.
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“Pettway. Evan Pettway.”
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She nodded. “Nice to officially meet you, Mr. Pettway.”
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“Nancy, right?” He motioned to her badge.
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“Yep.”
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They shook hands, brief but genuine. Then she turned and disappeared back into the blur of hospital chaos.
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Inside, Evan stepped through the doors, and the exhaustion that clung to him was quickly replaced by a familiar dread as he approached his family’s room.
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The moment the door swung open, a piercing wail split the air.
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“Waaaah! I don’t wanna, noooo!”
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Evan’s stomach dropped. Essiya was in full meltdown, face blotchy, cheeks streaked with tears.
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“What’s going on?” he asked, handing his phone to his mom before crouching beside the bed.
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He forced a grin. “Hey, little man. It’s not that bad. Could be way worse.”
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Essiya glared through wet lashes. “Easy for you to say! Your big belly cushioned you from getting hurt!”
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Evan snorted. “Damn, kid. Cold.”
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“Essiya!” his mom scolded.
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But Evan just laughed. “Alright, alright. But if you keep crying, I’m texting Kyra’s sister to let her know you’re just a big ol’ crybaby scared of a little scratch.”
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Essiya hiccupped, visibly torn. “No, you won’t!”
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“Try me.”
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But the teasing couldn’t hold. His fists clenched. His face crumpled.
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“I want my daddy! Where’s my daddy?”
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The room stilled as his cries echoed through the sterile space.
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Evan’s smile faded. His stomach twisted.
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“Did the doctor say anything about Donovan?” he asked, voice low, thick with dread.
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His mother tightened her grip on the phone. “He said... he’s not handling Donovan anymore. Dr. Gupta took over.”
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Evan’s chest tightened. “Why?”
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Her voice cracked. “It might be a spinal injury.”
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The words hit like a punch to the gut. Spinal.
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Evan’s thoughts spiraled—flashes of Donovan laughing, lifting him like a feather, tackling him into couch cushions, whispering plans for trouble after bedtime. Donovan, unbreakable.
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And now?
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He sank into a chair, hands sliding through his hair as his mother turned back to Essiya, her voice soft, soothing—a whisper trying to quiet the storm.
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“Oh, so... has anyone tried to call us?”
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“Yeah,” Evan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Auntie, Grandpa, a couple cousins… some family friends, too.”
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His mom let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I hope everyone’s safe.”
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She stood, hesitating for a moment. “I’m gonna step outside and make a few calls. Can you stay with Essiya?”
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“Yeah, of course.”
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As the door clicked shut behind her, a small voice broke the silence.
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“Is my dad gonna be okay?”
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Evan turned. Essiya sat curled on the bed, eyes wide and glossy with tears. The question came out barely above a whisper, but it hit like a brick.
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Evan’s throat tightened. “He will,” he said, even though he didn’t know. “Your dad’s the strongest guy I know. Stronger than me. Stronger than anybody.”
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Essiya lunged into his arms, clinging to him with everything he had. Evan hugged him back, rocking slightly, ignoring the ache in his back, the weight in his legs. This—this—was what mattered.
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After a minute, Essiya pulled away, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his oversized hoodie.
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“Are… are the stitches gonna hurt?” he asked, voice trembling on the edge of another breakdown.
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Evan forced a grin. “Nah, the doctor’s gonna numb you up. You won’t feel a thing.”
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“You promise?”
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“Of course! They’ll give you a little numbing shot and—”
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Essiya froze. His eyes went wide.
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“Sh-shot?! Noooo!”
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A shriek tore from his lungs as he flailed wildly, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.
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Evan winced. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
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Essiya’s cries filled the room again, loud enough to draw glances from passing nurses.
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Well... that backfired.
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The crying stopped as a knock sounded at the door.
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Evan stood fast, heart lurching as Dr. Gupta stepped inside. His face was unreadable—not comforting, not grim. Just professional. The kind of expression worn by someone used to delivering bad news.
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“Hello, everyone,” he said, voice steady. “I have an update on Donovan Honesty.”
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The room tilted. Evan’s focus tunneled to the space between him and the doctor.
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“Is he okay?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
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Dr. Gupta folded his hands. “He sustained blunt force trauma to the back of the head and neck. We’re also seeing signs of potential spinal damage.”
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The words hit like a sledgehammer. Evan swallowed, but it felt like glass scraping his throat.
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“How bad is it? Doc—just tell me he’s gonna be okay.”
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“At this moment,” Gupta said carefully, “we can’t say for certain. He requires specialized spinal care. We’re transferring him to a trauma center in Miami. Surgery is scheduled within twenty-four hours to forty-eight hours.”
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Spinal damage. Trauma center. Surgery.
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Evan’s thoughts reeled, grasping for something solid.
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“For now,” Dr. Gupta continued, “we’re moving Essiya to another room to treat the laceration on his head.”
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The door opened behind him, and a nurse rolled in a stretcher.
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Essiya’s eyes widened in horror. “No! No, I don’t wanna go!” He burst into tears, clutching Evan’s sleeve with trembling hands.
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Dr. Gupta turned to Evan. “You can wait in the waiting room. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
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Evan barely heard him. His fingers worked gently, peeling Essiya’s grip from his arm as the nurse guided the boy onto the stretcher. His cries echoed down the hall, shrinking with every step until the door clicked shut behind them.
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Mom returned just moments after Essiya was wheeled away, her eyes scanning the room like it might still hold answers.
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“Where’s Essiya? What did the doctor say?” she asked, breath shaky.
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Evan swallowed the lump in his throat and forced the words out. Repeating the diagnosis felt like betrayal. There was no comfort to offer—only facts. And waiting.
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The Waiting Room
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Time dragged like an anchor. Each second stretched unbearably, tethered to Evan’s chest.
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The fluorescent lights above buzzed without mercy, bathing the room in a cold, artificial glow. The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered, mingling with murmured voices and the occasional cry from somewhere down the hall.
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Evan shifted in his seat. Every passing nurse sent a jolt of hope through him.
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News. It had to be news.
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But none came.
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Anxiety dug in, relentless.
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Finally, Nurse Nancy appeared, her expression calm but unreadable. Beside him, his mother straightened, gripping the edge of her seat.
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“Everything went smoothly,” Nancy said gently, offering a small, practiced smile. She handed over a plastic bag filled with gauze and prescription bottles. “Instructions are inside. You can expect an update on Mr. Honesty within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
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Evan exhaled—not relief. Just breath. Just something to fill the quiet space between panic and numbness.
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“Thank you,” Mom murmured, her voice low.
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She stood slowly, her movements stiff with exhaustion. Evan rose beside her, and together they walked toward the exit, the weight of uncertainty pressing down with every step.
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The Drive Home
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The night air was cool against Evan’s skin, sharp with the scent of rain, asphalt, and something else—something like change.
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He climbed into the passenger seat beside his mother. Neither spoke. The tires hummed beneath them, a low, tuneless lullaby that filled the silence.
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When they pulled into the driveway, the house looked unfamiliar. The porch light still glowed, casting soft yellow over the debris. A chair lay on its side. The screen door hung crooked on its hinges.
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Inside was worse.
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Blankets and broken dishes littered the floor. The dining table sat off-center, muddy footprints streaking through the wreckage—evidence of paramedics moving fast, of life turned inside out.
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No one had cleaned.
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No one said a word.
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His mother lifted Essiya and carried him upstairs, vanishing into the hallway like a shadow.
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Evan didn’t follow.
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He stood in the middle of the wreckage for a long moment, unmoving, then turned and climbed the stairs to his room.
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He collapsed onto his bed—shoes on, arms splayed.
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Reaching for his phone, he hovered over Kyra’s name. Then, finally, he typed:
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No update yet. Still waiting.
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The moment he hit send, the adrenaline drained from his body, leaving only the ache. The weight.
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His head sank into the pillow, but sleep didn’t come.
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Instead, his mind replayed everything on loop—the fear in Essiya’s eyes, the way Mom’s hands trembled, Donovan’s still body on the stretcher.
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What if he never walks again? What if—
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Evan squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t go there. Not yet.
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His last thought before sleep finally took him was a silent plea.
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A prayer for his brother.
A prayer for peace.
A prayer that morning might bring mercy.
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