Chapter 11

Paul and Adrian waited nervously outside the trauma room as the team worked on Alon. Eventually, Adrian fell asleep, and Paul covered him with his coat. Gavin had brought them each a change of clothes and some provisions, so Paul sipped hot tea from a flask. A few times he left Gavin with Adrian while he attempted to contact Alon's parents, but he had no success. He walked wearily back to Gavin.

Gavin noticed Paul's eyes drooping. "Why don't you go and get a coffee. Or take a walk?" said Gavin.

"No, I-"
"Come on. If anything happens, I'll make sure you know straightaway."

Paul smiled. "Okay, then."


Paul walked to the cafeteria, and on the way noticed another bank of videophones next to the waiting room. He pulled the notepaper with Alon's address and phone number on, and dialled once more as he stood in the doorway. There was no response, but Paul did not really expect one. As he hung up, something caught his eye on the television in the waiting room.

"Over to our news-copter live from Michigan State,"

"Well, John, we're flying over Southern Michigan at the moment. The worst of the weather has gone from here but it's still pretty unpleasant."

Paul came inside the room and closer to the television. The pictures were shaking with the movement of the helicopter. All that could be seen was water, far and wide, the surface of which was only broken by tops of trees and the occasional roofs of houses. Some had messages written on them, but Paul could not make them out. The sky was almost black, and threatening. Rain pounded the helicopter, distorting the sound.

"Oh dear God!" he said aloud. The destruction looked total.

"We hear that the devastation is worst in the triangle between Detroit, Portage and Grand Rapids. Shorelines of the lakes have been hard hit also, but more people managed to evacuate these areas. Back to you, John."
"We'll bring you more news as we get it. You're watching NBCN."
Paul clapped his hands over his mouth. He was in mental turmoil. There had to have been deaths. If he had been more persistent, maybe more people would have got away. He changed the channel.

"Canada News reporting live from hurricane Alan. The hurricane rages on in the Great Lakes area, although we are told the worst is over. So far, Canadian deaths are still in single figures. The evacuation operation was very successful, and the Home Guard are still assisting rescues. We expect the weather to last for another 24 hours."

Paul shook his head, and turned off the television. He did not feel like coffee or a walk, and headed back to Gavin and Adrian.


All three were asleep when one of the trauma doctors came out to talk to them after several hours. She gently roused Paul, assuming him to be the father of the group.
"Mr. Markowitz?"

"Paul Durant," replied Paul, extending his hand.

"Are you not the boy's Father?" asked the doctor. Paul sucked in his cheeks; he had already explained this about five times, and he was tired and frustrated.

"No, I'm a camp counsellor."
"We need a signature. He needs surgery to repair his skull fracture."
"What kind of surgery?"

"We think he has a bleed in his brain."
"Right."
"So we need a parent or guardian signature."
"I'll sign."
"It would be better if we had a parent signature. Can I call them?"
"I'm afraid not."
The doctor eyed Paul with a little suspicion. "Why not, Mr. Durant?"
"It's Professor. And he's from Michigan," said Paul, severely.

"I'm sorry," said the doctor, and held up an electronic form for Paul to sign. He obliged, and watched them wheel Alon out of the trauma room. You could barely see the boy for all the equipment piled around him. Paul ran his fingers through his hair.


Paul woke Gavin. "You'd better get Adrian and yourself back to camp. You're both exhausted. I've sent for a car to collect you."
"Are you going to be okay?" said Gavin, quietly so as not to wake Adrian. He knew he would protest at being taken back to camp.

"Yeah," sighed Paul. "I think this is going to be long haul."

In silence they waited for the car, and when it arrived, Gavin picked Adrian up gently. He did not wake. The man who had come to collect them, Steve Vaughan, slapped Paul lightly on the arm as they walked out. Paul sank back down onto the bench.


It was twelve hours before there was word. Paul spent most of it watching news reports on the television. From these, he learned that most of the weather had subsided, although in some places it was still raining, and rescue operations had begun in earnest. The National Guard had discovered over 100 dead already. Paul was horrified.

"Professor Durant?" A short man in surgical scrubs had come into the room.

"Yes?" said Paul, turning around.

"I'm Dr. Cahill. I was one of the surgeons working on Alon Markowitz."
"Hello," said Paul, and shook his hand. "Is he okay?"

"The injuries were pretty severe given the description of what happened. Although the skull fracture and subsequent intracranial bleed were severe, there was yet more trauma to the brain unaccounted for by these injuries."
"What does that mean?"

"I'm afraid we don't know. But it is almost as if part of his brain were damaged without any external trauma. It is very odd."
"But he'll be okay?"
"He's in recovery now. The operation went well, and when he is a little more stable he'll be transferred to paediatric intensive care. I think his prospects look good, but we will know more when he regains consciousness."

"How long?" asked Paul.

"Difficult to say, Professor. It's up to Alon, now."

"He's a tough kid," said Paul, smiling.

"Yes, he is," said the doctor. "You can go and wait for him in PICU. He shouldn't be too long."

Paul nodded, and the doctor left. Paul went to the videophone and relayed the news back to camp. He tried Alon's parents again, but now he was not at all surprised to get no answer. Paul headed up to the PICU, and prepared himself for a long wait.


When Alon was brought into the ward, he looked ghastly. His glasses were laid on the bed next to him, and his eyes were taped shut. He had a tube coming out of his mouth, which the team attached to a ventilator. His little body had various drips and monitors attached, and he looked grey. His lips matched his pallid skin. The team who brought him in huddled around Alon for a while, conversing with the ward staff and handing Alon over formally. Eventually, Paul was left alone in the room with Alon, and one nurse.

Paul stood next to Alon's bed, and held on to the rails. It was a very small bed, and it brought home to Paul that for all of his maturity and intelligence, he was just a little boy. He looked even younger than his nine years, and the cartoon character blankets on his bed made Paul smile. That was not Alon's style at all. The nurse was busy jotting down notes, and noticed Paul gently rocking himself back and forth while holding onto the rail.
"You can talk to him, you know," he said.

"Can he hear me?" asked Paul.

"We don't know. Some studies have shown that some comatose patients can hear, smell and even feel touch. But more than that, it might make you both feel better."
Paul nodded. He gently took hold of Alon's left hand. It was strapped onto a small piece of rigid plastic so that the IV tube would not be disturbed. His hand felt strange and lifeless. Paul stood in silence.

The nurse looked at him. "Go on," he said.

"I don't know what to say," said Paul. "It doesn't matter," said the nurse. "Say anything. Tell him a fairy story."
Paul chuckled. "This kid is way beyond fairy stories. He's a genius. A real genius!" he said.

"Well, read him some research papers!" joked the nurse.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea!" said Paul.

First taken aback, the nurse frowned, but then smiled as Paul took a paper out of his bag, and began to read it to Alon. "You need anything, just press this," he said, and handed Paul a call button.