For the rest of the day, Tommy endured the whispered gossip that proved painfully loud. There'd been a sort of telephone effect; in the beginning, it was simply an unsubstantiated rumor that someone had fallen ill. Like all rumors, however, the story was embellished upon with a sprinkling of fact and a downpour of hearsay, mutating into one that had Conner hospitalized with massive internal hemorrhaging, then morbidly into dealings with death. All the while, Tommy sat and listened to his students, knowing the truth up to the teen being carried away in a stretcher, and hoping desperately that none of the low voices knew more than he did.

He'd stayed with Conner when Elsa and the school nurse arrived. Protocol dictated that he go back to his classroom at their arrival, but he couldn't, not in this case, and Elsa, much to the surprise of the nurse, allowed him to stay, even letting him see Conner off as the paramedics in sterile white uniform laid the latter out on a stretcher and took him into the ambulance. The sight of the young man who usually had the energy befitting the athlete that he was laid out and dazed, the whites of his eyes streaked with red and face as sickly yellowish-pallid as cremation ashes, was disturbing and surrealistic – how could this be the same soccer player that had been recruited with such enthusiasm by the college for his fitness? Too easily; the teacher shamefully thought of what Conner had to go through to get to that level, and couldn't meet anyone's eyes afterwards.

Through the remainder of the day, Tommy watched the clock more fervently than any schoolkid, counting what seemed to be each tick and twitch of the hands in nervous, apprehensive waiting, slowly filling with both anxiety and dread until his chest felt fit to burst. Finally, the bell rang, a strange, jarring sound. The students poured out, and Tommy broke his routine of staying after to organize, plan, and grade, leaving as soon as the room had been vacated. Part of him wanted desperately to go home and forget about it all – the same part that had wanted nothing to do with the matter from the start – but he felt obligated to visit Conner, to whom he now owed so much for his bad judgments and cowardice. The car radio was turned to the news wavelength; the reporter's velvety voice came from the speakers.

"A Reefside High School student was hospitalized earlier today after becoming violently ill and collapsing. Doctors at the hospital say that he is being treated for symptoms of acetaminophen overdose. His current condition–"

Tommy turned off the radio, fearful of what more he might hear. Medication overdose – had Conner tried to take his own life? Fear swelled up in his heart, beating an odd rhythm as though it didn't know whether to speed up or stop.

Upon reaching the hospital, he didn't know what to expect; burden of emotion had led him there, but only kin could enter the room of a patient without patient consent, and Conner's condition seemed only likely to deteriorate. Shaking his head as though trying to wake up from a nightmare only to be met with reality, he spoke to the woman at the desk, who placed a call up to check on Conner's room number and condition after assuring herself that this was someone who was close to the teen. She waved him up to the urgent care ward, where another secretary gestured for him to sit in the waiting area. Tommy tried to think of something, anything, but his mind remained stubbornly blank until the secretary called for him, telling him to go in room 247; at this, his mind relaxed somewhat, because that must mean Conner's lucid and well enough to give permission for visitors.

Unthinking of anything besides Conner's well-being, he entered the room, setting down few sheets of paper on the medical equipment.

"Hey, Dr. O," came the still weak voice from the bed. Tommy's eyes met Conner's for a brief moment before he could no longer hold the gaze. As hard as it had been seeing the boy trembling in the restroom stall and being carried on a stretcher, it was even more difficult to see him with the needle of an IV drip in his arm, liquid inching its way down and diffusing in his blood to ease his dehydration. Tommy willed his body to move to the bedside; it finally did, so slowly as to seem to be creaking with the effort.

"Oh, god, Conner," he muttered moments before the stifling silence choked him completely, "Oh, Goddamn." He cupped his hands over his mouth, breathing shallowly, "Why? Why did you overdose? Did you think it was the only way out?"

Conner stared at his teacher for a second, lines of bewilderment etched on his face, before giving the latter a lopsided grin and a part wistful, part exasperated sigh. "No, it's not what you're thinking. I'm not suicidal," he stated bluntly, "Just not all that smart, and maybe a little sleep deprived."

"What do you mean?" Tommy asked, taken aback.

"Well, the recruiter was coming next Tuesday to see me play – I'm already accepted into the college no matter what, so this was to find out how well I'd do on the team, and to find out if I've got a future in soccer." Conner paused here, hesitant to go on; the teacher touched the young man's arm, nodding, and Conner continued, "So yesterday, I was drilling, like always–" here, Tommy shook his head in disapproval, eyes sliding to the floor at his own entanglement – "And I guess I must have sprained my ankle pretty bad, because it hurt like hell. Dad didn't want me to stop practicing because of how important making a good impression was going to be, and I didn't either, so he said to take some Tylenol. I took a few extra strength pills, and it felt a little better. After an hour, it wore off – I guess I must have some tolerance to it now–" Tolerance? Tommy wondered at how often Conner had taken them in the past – "So I took a few more, and..." The teen's voice trailed off as he blushed lightly in embarrassment.

"How many did you take?"

"Maybe twenty? I dunno, I didn't really count." Conner's tone was disconcertingly sheepish.

"And he let you do that?"

"Well, yeah – he's the one that gave them to me."

"Has he...has he done anything since...?"

"...Yeah."

Tommy buried his face in his hands, mumbling, "I'm so sorry, Conner. I – Hell, I should have stopped this when I first found out."

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a man carrying a briefcase and wearing a business suit walked in, concern evident in his physiognomy.

"Dad–"

"Conner, are you okay?" The man – Mr. McKnight – asked, genuine worry with no trace of meanness in his voice.

"I think so. I think I'll be okay."

"Who are you?" Mr. McKnight turned to face Tommy, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Why are you here in my son's room?"

"I'm Dr. Thomas Oliver, your son's science teacher. I'm the one who found him sick in the restroom, and I just felt obligated to check on him," Tommy replied, voice unsure at the sight of Conner's father. His bemusement only increased as the latter's expression warmed, extending a hand to the teacher. The man was not at all what Tommy had expected; he'd envisioned a boorish, uncivil sort of person, low-class and mean-spirited, but Mr. McKnight seemed quite respectable.

"Thank you for helping Conner – I hope it wasn't too much trouble? In any case, I don't want to take up more of your time," Harmless a query as this was, it raised a red flag in Tommy's scrutinizing mind – Conner was gravely ill, yet his father's first question was whether or not his son's situation had been a bother? He knew at once the kind of parent the man was, the kind that wanted to parade his son around to boost his own image and ego. With glance at Conner's current state, IV tube jutting out of his arm and the faint remnants of contusions still visible on the young man's upper arm, Tommy resolved to confront Mr. McKnight with what he knew.

"It's trouble, but it comes with being a teacher," he responded evenly, "Though I have a feeling there's more behind this than just a silly mistake."

"What do you mean, Dr. Oliver?" A split-second flinch was all that betrayed the wrong behind the half façade of a kind, caring father.

"I mean, Mr. McKnight, that I question what you've been doing to Conner."

"What I've been doing–"

"Dr. O! Don't, not now," Conner called out, energized by desperation. Tommy, however, plodded on, voice made toneless by his own disbelief at what he was managing to do.

"I saw bruises that can't possibly be from normal bumps. I saw burn marks, Mr. McKnight, and for that, I have reason to report you for child abuse."

"...What?" Conner's father blinked, dumbfounded, while Conner merely slammed his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes and doing his best to shut out the other two people in the room.

"You heard what I said. How do you explain the obvious burn scars on Conner's back?"

"I- You-! What do you intend?" Mr. McKnight sputtered, face reddening.

"What kind of father does that to his child? Hurts his child like that? Lets his child take an obscene amount of medicine?" Tommy asked, voice rising, barely reining in his anger. He grabbed the papers he'd set down – the papers that had been in his office drawer for months – and waved them, "This is the form to file for an investigation by Social Services. I'm filling this out right now."

"Look, I don't know who you think you are, but Conner is my son. I will deal with him, and being his father, no one should be telling me how I should raise my children," Conner's father said, voice dangerously low.

"When you're treating him that way, then yes, something is wrong – damned wrong! I've let it go on too long already, and I'm not letting you off for doing something so horrible," Tommy retorted, unfazed.

"Who do you think you are, to be making that sort of judgment?" Mr. McKnight questioned, now significantly louder.

"His teacher, and someone who cares about him!"

"You think I don't care?" The two voices rose higher and higher in volume. Meanwhile, Conner had lain there shaking his head, more weary than he'd ever felt before; pangs of pain shot like lightning at his stomach, and he pressed on it, doubling up. The clamor of the two men in the room buzzed loudly in his ears, swirling maelstrom-like in his head.

"Stop it, just stop!" Conner yelled, then slumped back, just as abruptly silent as he had been suddenly interruptive.

"Conner?" Tommy strode over to the bed, clasping the young man's shoulders. "Conner?" His questions were echoed by Conner's father, concern returning to his face. The teen, however, was unresponsive.

A nurse went into the room, then rushed out; soon, several people in scrubs dashed in, taking Conner out of the room. One hurriedly explained, "He's comatose – liver problems, possible liver failure."

Mr. McKnight stood paralyzed as Tommy whirled on him, eyes blazing, seething, "Is this what you wanted? Is he doing enough to feed your ego now?"

Conner's father said nothing, only stood there with his head bowed, tears beginning to roll down his face.


A/N: Not all child abusers are boorish idiots; they'd be much easier to recognize if that was the case. Some are just very driven parents who want to be proud of their children just as much as any others – only for the wrong reasons, and using the wrong methods of child-raising. People who are otherwise intelligent can do very stupid things.

Actually researched acetaminophen poisoning, and I think I got the effects right. As for the period of lucidity where Conner seemed to be doing better, that's a part of acetaminophen poisoning – the second stage seems like recovery, but isn't. Couldn't believe how many people do OD accidentally per year.