CHAPTER I: tonight

The setting sun cast an orange glow throughout the sky as a wind swept through and rustled the trees of Melberg University. Hints of shadows appeared where the spreading sunlight met the feathery clouds above. Jonathan Crower found that the warmer air outside was a welcome change after an hour-and-a-half lecture in the freezing Anthropology Department.

Feeling relief, he pulled up both straps of his backpack while other students hurried to their last periods or left for home. Then, he took a moment to breathe in the Friday night as he flexed his fingers and rubbed his hands together to encourage circulation.

"Fucking freezing in there eh, Mr. Crower?" asked a familiar voice behind him. He turned to answer the black-haired Clara, carrying two books in her arms and wearing her usual jacket-denim-scarf outfit.

"Yeah," he replied. "Need help with that?"

"I'm good," Clara answered, but he took the load from her nonetheless. Dull, brown leaves slowly fell from the trees as they walked. "Thanks," she said, pointing to the books that Jonathan was now carrying. "Got a report next week."

The Familiarity of Fiction, Jonathan saw on one of the books. "You must be busy then."

"Not really? I manage my time well, and this bitch… is actually going to a party tonight. Stacy's 20th. Do you know her?"

Jonathan squinted. He looked at Clara who, with her big almond-tantalizing eyes, waited for a reply. "McGraff? From Math?"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's the one," she answered, combing her fingers through her hair. "Math, a year ago. She sat two rows from us, right? Well, we became friends last semester, and I found out that…"

Clara continued with her story as Jonathan glanced at her again. Taking heavy breaths, he figured it was an opportunity to bond with Clara Ruth Park even more. Their friendship began when they were newcomers to the university, and as block mates, they had their first two semesters together. Once, they had been on a group outing, a semester starter, as their friends called it, but that led nowhere. Now, as he focused on the mere thought of going to another party with Clara, her story about meeting Stacy McGraff dissolved into white noise amidst the deep heavy breaths and the pounding crescendo in his veins. After that fateful night, this was a chance that he may never have again.

"Yo, Jonathan? John?" black-haired Clara Park snapped at him from his thoughts. Smiling, she asked him if he was okay.

"Stacy's nice, and I'd love to come," Jonathan quickly thought of a response. "Hope she still remembers me. As someone who abhors gatecrashers, I don't wanna be one." They passed by a couple of structures, and it was at that moment that he started to feel the weight of The Familiarity of Fiction and the other book he failed to recognize.

Jonathan had fond memories with Clara. Occasionally, especially after a drink or two, she was frisky and coy, and he indulged her. When it was his turn to be playful, she would indulge her back. Twirling the hair with the fingers here. Subtle "you look nice today" comments there. And yet, nothing serious had happened between them. Still, he always wondered what could have happened if he took that risk.

Just then, the phone in his pocket vibrated – a daily reminder of his responsibilities back at the hospital.

"Ah, dammit," he winced. With one arm holding on to the books, he struggled with his free hand to turn off the alarm. "Sorry, C. I really want to go. But there's just, you know, things to do."

"Oh, yeah," Clara remembered as well. "Your mom. How is she by the way?"

"Same old." He returned the phone inside his pocket. "You know I'd like to hope, but there's really no way to tell if tonight's the night that she'll-"

"Hey, it's fine," Clara smiled. "No need to explain," she said as they reached the parking lot of the Theological Studies Complex. "Well for what it's worth, all things eventually come to pass, right?" She thanked him and held out her hands, implying this was her stop.

Giving her the books, Jonathan thanked her back. He watched her leave and felt a sudden weight in his chest, as if The Familiarity and the other book were still with him but bared down against his shoulders and chest instead of his arms.

Would have. Could have. He often found himself in situations where he had to make difficult choices. Jonathan Crower's road often diverged into two separate paths – the easy one and the right one. Truly, it could have been easy enough to accept Clara's offer. Another party. Another chance. It would have been a fun and welcome break from his everyday routine, but he knew that the right choice, at least for him, was never the easy one.

Clara waved at him before entering her car. Jonathan smiled, then sighed, and hailed a cab to the Metro General Medical Center.

The 4-minute ride to the hospital felt longer inside his head as conflicting thoughts devoured him from within. Decades ago, the founders of the city wanted the most important facilities to be constructed close to each other. Melberg University did not have an infirmary simply because the Medical Center was built within walking distance for the convenience of students, professors, and university staff alike.

But he did not feel like walking, not tonight.

Before he even knew it, the cab had stopped in front of the 40-year old hospital. He made his payment, got off, and greeted the old man who sold peaches and oranges near the Emergency Room's entrance. Jonathan couldn't remember a time when the man wasn't at his usual spot. He seemed harmless albeit a bit out of place. He had no stench whatsoever, and Jonathan had come to respect the man's dedication to make a living.

"Heh heh," the old man laughed. Some of his teeth were missing. People passing by looked at him as he sat on the pavement. "If it isn't Mr. Chowder."

"Crower," Jonathan respectfully replied with a smile. He took a bill from his wallet and gave it to the man. "The usual, please."

He knew not what the old man's name was and wondered if he ever will. The friendly geezer wore his everyday outfit; a stained white shirt paired with a tattered blue jacket and aged denim pants. He wore no shoes; only socks that had holes in them, which allowed both of his big toes to wiggle free.

"You wash this well, boyyo," the old man said with a smile as he gave Jonathan a plastic bag with three oranges in it. He never bought peaches from the man because the first and last time that he did, they tasted off.

"Thank you," he said. He started to walk away, only to come back a few seconds later to give the man his spare change before entering the hospital.

For some reason, Metro General was always crowded on Friday nights. He always thought of it as a curse of some sort that the city's hospital would have plenty of visitors. Around him were people who needed medical attention; young and old, male and female. Some of them looked in pain; they were in stretchers and wheelchairs while there were others, mostly the children, who seemed to be here only for medical checkups.

Strangers, he thought. Only the staff's faces were familiar since Jonathan had spent every night of the last two years of his life in the hospital. One of the guards greeted Jonathan as he passed. He also saw Nurse Ella, the gentle and hardworking soul that he befriended in time. Sometimes, it was Bill who did the routine checks, but there was never a week when Jonathan didn't see Ella come to his mother's room to inspect her. But seeing that they were busy, he didn't bother to greet anyone.

He saw that the elevator was stacked full of people, so he climbed the stairs to get to the fourth floor. With significantly fewer people on the hallways, this floor was reserved for patients that had been confined in Metro General for quite some time. On his way to Room 416, he passed by a couple in a tight hug - the man trying his best to console the weeping woman. One of the lights in the hallway flickered as he made a quick turn to the hospital's left wing.

A few seconds later, he was finally home.

Mother used to tell him that home's where the family is. That happened years ago, when his father was still alive, back when home was that small, red house in the suburbs. Back when days seemed to be less about surviving and more about living. That house and that time was a completely different life. Now, Jonathan's only reason to go back to the suburbs was when he ran out of money and had to collect payment from the family that rented his parents' house. He always spent his evenings by Mother's side.

As if in a drawn-out but unspoken prayer, Mother lay silently on the bed. Her white hair was unkempt, and she wore a hospital gown that he would change every three days. Her bones could be seen from her cheeks, and suspended next to the bed was an IV. Above her head on the wall was a bronze crucifix – her guardian when her son wasn't around. The hospital was kind enough to lend a couple of chairs, just enough for Jonathan to have a makeshift bed.

Her eyes were closed, as they had been for the past three years.

"Hi, Mom," he said, putting the oranges on the table next to her bed. He dropped his backpack on the floor and drank a glass of water from the nearby dispenser. Knowing that there was no way for her to respond, he nevertheless hoped that she could hear him.

He sat on the chair next to the bed. Every night, he would tell her about how his day went, which clothes he wore, and which classes he decided to cut. "Took the cab today," he said. He peeled and ate one of the oranges, then asked her where the old man near the Emergency Room entrance got the fine oranges and the nasty peaches from. He told her how Mr. Spencer caught him sleeping for the third time this semester.

He talked about Clara as well. Often, he told stories to his mother about black-haired and almond-eyed Clara Park - hoping that the excitement in his voice would stir Mother up and perhaps wake her from the seemingly eternal slumber that she suffered from.

"Of course, I said I couldn't come," Jonathan told her. "But I really wanted to."

He looked at his mother whose head rested on a white pillow as it had ever since she was admitted. Taking her hand, he said, "Sorry, Mom. I almost… forgot. Almost said yes, Mom."

Despite his age, Jonathan Crower understood the difference between hoping and expecting. He had been hoping that every night of his stay at Metro General would be his last, and yet his expectations indicated that it would not be. Ella, Bill, and the doctors gave no assurance and could not answer the question of when his mother would wake.

He placed his elbows on the bed and, eventually, wept himself to sleep.

The sound of a karaoke machine played from afar. In the dark, he and Clara were in the grape garden. They could hear their friends singing, but they didn't want to join. This moment was their own.

Clara's left hand squeezed his shoulder while the fingers of her other hand intertwined with his. Her chuckle was like a song that he always loved to hear. There was a subtle warmth at the base of his throat, but he paid it no mind. "I'm not drunk, Mr. Crower," she sneered at him. "I'll remember all of this tomorrow."

"Me, too," Jonathan said.

"Shit," she said as she stared right through him. "Mr. Sentimentality is drunk." Her mocking eyes gleamed in the dark, and as he stared back at her, he felt an intensity welling deep within. After a few seconds of contemplation, he slid his other hand behind her back and leaned in.

He hesitated.

It was a dream. A memory. An echo of both. He woke, and his stomach growled and complained as if saying to him that the orange was not considered dinner. Seeing that it was still nighttime, he quickly got up and went down the hospital stairs. It was important to take care of himself – getting sick was never an option.

Across the street was a fast-food chain that Jonathan had come to love. As he walked, he remembered way back when Father was still alive. "Greasy fries and oily burgers and chaos on the news will be the death of modern society," his father always said. Most of the time since Father's death, Jonathan had listened to that piece of wisdom, but when it wasn't a cup (or two) of instant noodles or the occasional prepared meal from the hospital's cafeteria, it was the greasy fries and oily burgers.

He paid for dinner from the take-out counter and made his way back to the hospital. The street was still busy even at this hour of the night. A man in a stretcher was carried off from the ambulance and into the ER. The security who greeted him earlier shooed away the old man he bought oranges from. He'll come back tomorrow, Jonathan thought to himself. And there were others, relatives and friends of patients maybe, who were also buying the terror of modern society that his father had warned him about. Fuck, Jonathan said as his stomach growled again.

The pedestrian signal had not yet turned green so to pass the time and the hunger, he pulled out the hamburger from the paper bag. He looked around the street while he munched away. The onions, pickles, and meat mixed inside his mouth. Then he heard her.

Several meters to his right was a small girl, screaming and alone. He thought he saw mucus dripping from her nose. He figured that if the girl was lost, he'd take her to the hospital's security guards who would know what to do.

The child started to cross the street.

"Hey!" he called to her. Partially chewed food lodged in his throat for a second, and he called out to her again. "Hey, sweetie!"

She paid no attention to him and was determined to cross the street. From the corner of his eye, far to his left, he caught a glimpse of an oncoming truck. Jesus, he thought.

"Get out of there kid!" he yelled. "Does anyone know that child?" he called out to no one in particular. "Hello?"

Everyone on the street still seemed busy. People just passed by. Others saw the toddler; they only stared as if their feet were stuck to the ground. Across the street, the guard was still shouting at the old man.

And the child kept walking.

Then, Jonathan Crower heard the loudest horn he had ever heard in his life.

He ran.

It was a fleeting moment, but he thought he felt the girl's back press against the palms of his hands.