Dawn was just beginning to silver the sky when Steve opened his eyes. He could see the first hints of sunrise from the corner of his eye, but when he tried to turn his head, it felt like a knife was scraping across his skull. He was so cold, and his head hurt. What had happened? He couldn't remember. He closed his eyes again because the light hurt too much. He was alone and frightened, and he knew he was in trouble. Then everything went dark again.
"Yo, Bry, looka here, man. This dude must have at least three grand in this bag!"
The next time Steve came to, he heard voices. Thank God. Help is here.
"Thirty-five fifty-eight an' sixty-two cent, Reggie." One of the voices said, "That what it say on the deposit slip."
The night's receipts, I was going to deposit them.
"Man, that gotta be at least a thou apiece!" Reggie's voice exclaimed.
"Almost."
Steve could hear the sly smile in Bry's voice. Invest some of it in a calculator, Reggie.
"Hey, Bry, you really think we should take it? It ain't ours, man, an' he look like he need some help."
It was icy. I hit the lamppost. My head hurts.
"Reggie, looka him," Bry said condescendingly, "The shape he in, he don't need the money no more an' he beyond helpin'."
Hey, I'm still alive! Keep the money if you must, but please call an ambulance! Steve fought to give them some sign that he was not dead yet. He really didn't give a damn about the cash, but he didn't want to die like this. Please! Call an ambulance! Everything faded out for a moment.
Reggie studied the large man hunched over the wheel. The heavy lamppost had dropped directly onto the driver's side of the truck and collapsed the roof in on top of the man. He was very still, his arms folded over the steering wheel and his head resting face down on his arms as if he had just had time to shield his face from the shattering windshield before the roof caved in and knocked him out, pinning him to the steering column. He'd been bleeding profusely from his head before they'd arrived, and gelatinous red goo now pooled in the seat beside him and on the dash before him. His hair and his clothes were stained red, and he was pale, so pale he was almost blue.
Reggie poked him gently in the side, and he didn't make a sound.
Steve felt the gentle prodding of his ribs, and tried to respond, but he couldn't. He did manage to open his eyes, though, and all he saw was the floor of the truck and a flash of red and black out of the corner of his eye.
A Chicago Bulls fan?
"Hey, looka this, Bry," Reggie said, and Steve saw a hand pull his mother's violin out from under the seat.
He tried to reach out to stop the hand, but his right arm wouldn't respond. Please, leave it alone.
"Ya think he a musician?"
Not yet, but I'm working on it.
"Prob'ly," Bry said. "Why else he got a violin?"
It was my mother's. Please, leave it alone.
"Think we should take it?"
No! Oh, please, no. Take the cash, but leave me the violin. Oh, God, not Mom's violin. Dad will be crushed! Bry and Reggie still hadn't realized he was awake.
Bry laughed rudely and asked, "Whatcha want it for? You gonna take lessons?"
Steve fought desperately to make his body react. Something, anything, any movement might scare them away. He knew they could just as likely decide to finish him off, but that was a risk he had to take.
"Nah, man, but we could pawn it. Get maybe another fifty bucks apiece."
Not if I can help it. Steve battled with his uncooperative limbs to make them respond, hoping by force of will to somehow make these two go away. All that mattered was saving his mother's violin, and he focused all his energy on that one goal.
"Ok, sounds good to me, Reg."
"PUT IT DOWN AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" Suddenly something let loose inside Steve and he managed to tear himself out of the narrow cranny his body had been packed into between the roof of the truck and the steering wheel. Screaming and shouting, he went at the two young thugs, demanding that they returned his mother's instrument.
"JEEZUS!"
As Steve stumbled from the truck, bloodied and battered, the thieves began to back off, but Reggie still held the violin.
"Give me back my instrument! Take the money and get the hell out of here, but let me have the violin!"
"Damn, Bry! I thought you said he dead."
Knowing that all bullies were really cowards at heart, Steve continued to advance, limping heavily on the right side, shouting all the while. He still had the advantage of having startled them, and if he could just keep them scared, he might get what he wanted.
"Just give me the damned instrument, and you can go."
"So, I was wrong."
"You sure were, and if I don't get that violin in three seconds, I'm going to bust your head."
"He must be a nutcase," Reggie said. "I can't understand a word he sayin'."
"You're not that dumb, I want the violin! You can have the money." Hoping to drive a wedge between them, he pointed out the mathematical error Bry had let slide earlier. "Just make sure your friend here gives you your fair share, over seventeen hundred dollars. Now, please, give me the violin."
"Hey, Reggie, this could be fun," Bry said, moving forward again.
Steve heard the menace in Bry's tone, and instantly knew he had lost his advantage. Bry was no longer afraid.
"What you mean, Bry?"
"Well, he crazy. We can do whatever we want to him, an' he'll never be able to ID us 'cause the cops won't understand what he sayin'."
"Well, what should we do?"
Steve felt his blood run cold when Bry cracked his knuckles and moved in with his fists up. He struggled to bring his arms up to protect his face and midsection, but he was too slow. His right arm hung useless at his side. Bry's first punch landed in his solar plexus and knocked the wind right out of him. He collapsed to the pavement like a sack of stones.
"No, please, don't."
"Bry, don't do that," Reggie said, growing nervous. "He ain't done nothin'. He just some wacko had an accident. Let's go, man."
"Damn," Bry cursed, and looking up, Steve saw insanity light his eyes. "I thought it might be fun to have a live punchin' bag, but I guess he too hurt to take it." He drew his foot back and landed a vicious kick to Steve's ribs.
A high, thin wail pierced the morning.
"Come on, Bry," Reggie said, tugging his friend's sleeve gently, "Somebody called a amb'lance. We gotta go now."
Another kick to the ribs, and Bry turned to go.
"After we split the cash, Reg, I know a pawn shop I'll take you to an' we can find out what that violin worth."
As the two young monsters ran off, Steve struggled to his feet and ran after them. "No, please, it was my mom's!" His head was pounding, his ribs hurt, his right side didn't want to cooperate, and he only made it a few yards before he collapsed. He heard the siren closing in, and everything went dark again.
"My mom's violin. Did you get my mom's violin?" The first thought in Steve's mind became the first words out of his mouth when he came to.
"It's all right, Sir, we'll take good care of you. You're on your way to Community General Hospital."
"Where's the violin?"
The paramedic completely ignored Steve's question. "Pulse ninety, BP 90 over 60. Conscious but not coherent. Some right side paralysis."
"What are you talking about?" Steve reached up and grabbed the man by his jacket. "What happened to my mother's violin?"
The paramedic gently pried his hands loose. "Just relax, Sir. I know you must be frightened, but everything will be ok."
A wave of pain and dizziness overwhelmed him, and Steve blacked out yet again.
"What have you got?" Jesse asked, pulling the ambulance doors open.
"White male, mid forties. Tried to run his truck up a light pole. We found him in the parking lot on the ground, but it looks like the lamppost collapsed on the driver's side and bashed the roof in on his head."
"My God, Steve!" Jesse gasped getting his first good look at his patient. "Nurse, have Dr. Sloan paged now!"
Steve was dimly aware of Jesse's voice giving orders and the paramedic giving Jesse his vitals amid the cacophony of ER sounds. He heard that troubling phrase again, "Conscious but not coherent," and wondered what was wrong.
"Jess . . ."
"He's coming round again."
"Jess. Tell my dad . . ."
"Shhh. Take it easy, buddy. You'll be ok."
"Dammit, will you just shut up and listen to me?"
A troubled frown crossed Jesse's face, and, totally ignoring his friend's plea, he snapped, "I need that CAT scan and a neuro consult NOW!" Then, turning back to Steve, he said, "Listen to me, buddy. You've had a bad whack to the head. You need to just relax and let us take care of you."
Finally realizing that he was going to get nowhere with Jesse until he had been properly treated, Steve nodded and closed his eyes and tried to rest. When he felt better, when the headache was gone, then he could talk. He could tell his dad about the violin and about Sara, and he could try to apologize for losing the family heirloom. He drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. Every now and then, words floated into his brain from the outside, but they were disconnected and unreal.
Jesse's voice. ". . . pressure on the brain . . . conscious but not coherent . . . "
A stranger. ". . . the speech centers . . . paralyzed on the right . . .Broca's area . . . surgery. . ."
His dad. ". . . take good care of him . . ."
The stranger. "We will."
He heard a loud buzz and felt something tickling his scalp, and then his head felt cold. Then he knew nothing.
Jesse's voice. ". . . strong . . . tolerated the surgery well . . ."
The stranger. ". . . wait and see . . . therapy . . . lucky to be alive . . ."
Jesse. ". . . get some rest . . . "
His dad. "I'll wait around a while in case he wakes up."
Steve slipped back into the darkness, comforted by the knowledge that his father was there.
"Mark," Steve heard Amanda's gentle voice admonish as he drifted from darkness to gray, "you've been here twelve hours straight, and five before that in the waiting room while he was in surgery. You know you need to get some rest."
"I'm fine, sweetie."
"No, you're not," she disagreed. "You're exhausted, you're worried, and you haven't eaten. You know Steve will be angry with Jesse and me when he wakes up if we don't make you get some rest."
It's ok, Amanda, I know what he's like. Thanks for trying, though.
"Amanda," Steve heard his father argue back, "I am not leaving here until he wakes up."
"At least go to your office and lie down. The nurse will page you when he comes around."
"No. I . . . have to be here. I have to look in his eyes and see he's . . . still in there."
I'm here, Dad. Don't worry. Steve heard the strain in his father's voice and somewhere found the strength to claw his way to consciousness. The first thing he became aware of was a thundering headache, but then he remembered the lamppost crashing down atop his truck and knocking him out, and the thudding in his head didn't worry him so much. Then he felt an alien object invading his throat and felt like he was choking. Air was forced into his lungs, and his ribs complained in pain, and he knew he was on a ventilator. His natural reaction was to reach up and try to pull the tube out of his mouth, but gentle hands stopped him.
"Easy, Son. It's there to help you breathe."
Steve opened his eyes, squinting into the light at first because it hurt, but as his vision adjusted, he opened them fully and looked into his father's eyes. Amanda didn't seem to be anywhere around, and Steve wondered just how long it had taken him to wake up. His dad was still holding his hand, and Steve, craving that contact, and remembering his father's need to know he was still there, squeezed tight. He felt his father squeeze back, and tried his best to smile round the ventilator tube. Mark smiled back, and for a long time, father and son sat motionless, just looking into each other's eyes.
Steve didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but feeling Jesse release the strap that held the ventilator tube in place woke him. He looked into his friend's eyes, and was encouraged that Jesse smiled back.
"Hey buddy," Jesse said softly, but in a cheerful voice. "How are you feeling?"
Steve gave it some thought. His head ached, and he still had the tube down his throat, but he didn't hurt anywhere else. He tried to smile to indicate he was ok.
Jesse smiled. "I'll bet you'll feel better to have that tube out."
Steve nodded very slightly, though his eyes widened with anxiety. He'd been through the procedure a couple times in the past, and it was always horrendous.
"I know you hate this part, Steve, and I was hoping to have it over with before you woke up, but you just wouldn't cooperate. You know you'll be much more comfortable when it's over, right?"
He felt his stomach clench in dread and anticipation as Jesse disconnected the hose and took hold of the end of the tube that protruded from his mouth.
"Ok, take a deep breath when I tell you to, and on three, breathe out hard like you're blowing out the candles on a cake, right?"
Unwilling to nod because Jesse had the tube in his hand, Steve opted to give him the thumbs up instead.
"Breathe in . . . one, two, three."
Steve exhaled forcefully, and as he felt the tube pulled up and out of his throat, he coughed and gagged. As the end of the tube slid through his windpipe and out his mouth, he retched, and Jesse, knowing this moment was coming, had an emesis basin ready and waiting. He was very sick into the bowl, but since he hadn't eaten much lately, there wasn't much to deposit.
Jesse handed him a glass of water, ordering him to "Rinse and spit."
Without a word, Steve did as he was told, wanting to get the taste and feel of the tube and the vomit out of his mouth as fast as possible. Then Jesse handed him a toothbrush. As Steve brushed his teeth, Jesse rinsed the basin. He brought it back a minute later and held it out for Steve to spit. Then he handed Steve the water again so he could rinse out the toothpaste.
"Better?" Jesse asked when Steve had finished brushing.
Steve sighed deeply, leaned back into the pillows, smiled contentedly, and nodded.
"But you're still tired, aren't you?"
Steve just nodded again.
He heard a laugh in Jesse's voice as he said, "Well, then, you go ahead and rest. Someone will wake you in time for lunch."
He felt his friend pat his shoulder, nodded one more time, and was asleep again.
Steve drifted slowly awake, and smiled. He had a vague recollection of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fruit cocktail and green beans. He just loved hospital food. His throat was still somewhat sore from the respirator tube, but it was out, now, and he was glad to be rid of it. He just sat for a while, enjoying the sensation of being well rested and relatively free from pain. When he was feeling a little stronger, he would worry about how he got here and what he had missed since he got hurt, but for the moment, he was happy just to be comfortable.
The sense of comfort dissipated after just a few minutes as he noticed a feeling of heaviness and discomfort low in his abdomen. It took him a moment to realize what was going on, and then, looking around, he realized he was alone. He briefly considered buzzing a nurse, but could see no reason why he shouldn't get out of bed and use the bathroom on his own. Carefully, he put the safety railing down, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still on an IV, and he knew he had to take that with him, so he reached out to pull the pole over close to him and found he couldn't coordinate his movements enough to grasp it. He figured he must still be under the anesthetic, so he tried again with his left hand and succeeded. Then he tried to stand.
He was surprised how quickly the carpet came up to meet him.
From his position on the floor of the hospital room, it took him a moment to get reoriented. By the time he had his bearings and was struggling to his feet again, a pretty little redheaded nurse had come in.
"Lieutenant Sloan!" she gasped, "What are you doing out of bed?"
"I just needed to use the bathroom," Steve replied, "I guess I kinda lost my balance." Grinning sheepishly, he asked, "Do you think you could help me up?"
The nurse came over beside him and pressed the buzzer then slipped an arm around him. "Let's just get you back into bed."
"Ok, but first, can I please use the bathroom?" Steve was shocked at how weak he felt, especially on the right, and with growing horror realized he would probably need her help to get on and off the seat.
As if she hadn't even heard him, she helped him to his feet and guided him to the bed.
"Look, I need to get to the toilet, soon," Steve said becoming increasingly agitated as his need quickly grew.
Another nurse entered and, as she forced Steve into the bed and covered him up, the redhead said, "Get doctors Travis and Sloan in here, now."
"Please, just let me use the facilities, and I promise I'll get back into bed," Steve pleaded, trying his best to get up again.
The redhead pushed back on his shoulders, and gently pinned him to the bed. "Lieutenant, you have to calm down. Just relax and wait for Dr. Travis and your father. You're all right, and they will be here in just a minute."
Steve was beginning to suffer abdominal cramps, and he struggled frantically to get out of bed, shouting at the nurse to let him go, but she carried on trying to soothe him, ignoring his pleas, and holding him down. He knew he must be weak as a kitten for the tiny woman to be able to restrain him by herself, but that didn't stop him from fighting her. Finally, Jesse came in, and Steve was sure relief was in sight. Jesse might be a little over protective, but he wasn't the sadistic control freak this woman was.
"Doctor! Thank goodness you're here," the nurse gasped. Lieutenant Sloan might be weak, but after several minutes of struggling with him, she was beginning to tire.
"I came in and he was sitting on the floor as if he'd tried to get out of bed. When I initially helped him up, he was quite cooperative, but he's been struggling more and more ever since."
"Because I have to use the bathroom, you stupid woman!" Steve shouted impatiently. "Jess, I can't wait much longer, will you tell her to let me go?"
"Steve, you need to calm down," Jesse said gently, taking over for the nurse who ran out to get help. Jesse gently massaged his friend's shoulders. "Be still and relax buddy, and it will be ok, otherwise, we'll have to sedate you."
"Not you, too! Just let me use the damned john and I'll be fine!"
His dad came in then, and stood by the bed opposite Jesse. He took Steve's hand and squeezed it gently, saying in a smooth even tone, "Son, just relax. Take deep breaths, and calm down."
From the look on Mark's face, he knew he would get neither answers nor assistance from that quarter either, and he redoubled his efforts. He couldn't understand why everyone was intent on keeping him in bed, and, at the moment, he really didn't care. He only had a few moments left before he embarrassed himself, and he wasn't about to do that if he could possibly avoid it. There would be plenty of time later for questions and answers. Right now, he just needed relief.
"Dad, why can't I get out of bed? What's wrong with me?" Steve was becoming genuinely frightened now. He couldn't understand why he was being restrained. He remembered his accident, but he hadn't been that badly hurt, had he? Of course not, if he could continue fighting back for as long as he had been, he must not be too seriously injured. Jesse was breathing hard, now, and Steve knew, if he could wear out the young doctor, he must be doing all right.
Then he saw his father pull out a syringe and a vial and give Jesse a troubled, questioning look. Jesse just nodded, then said, "You have to Mark. He's not calming down, and he's still not coherent. Until we can get him to be still for some testing, we don't know how aware he is of what's going on around him and he'll only get more upset."
"Dad! No! Dammit, Jesse, I am aware of what's going on. I am very aware that I have to use the bathroom, NOW!"
"This is just a little Versed, Son," Mark said soothingly as he slipped the needle into Steve's IV catheter and depressed the plunger. "It will calm you down and relax you," he said. "You'll fall asleep, and wake again in an hour or so, feeling much calmer, and this time, Son, I promise you won't wake up alone."
Steve continued to fight and struggle for as long as he could, but the Versed was stronger than his stubborn streak, and in less than five minutes, he was out.
As Steve's thrashing ceased, Jesse let him go and stood up. Straightening his tie, he looked to Mark and said, "I wonder what set him off."
Mark shrugged. "We have no way of knowing since he can't tell us, Jesse," he pulled up a chair and settled in, "but I'm going to be here next time he wakes up so he isn't all alone."
"Mark, you had no choice but to go," Jesse advised his mentor and friend. "Steve was stable and resting, and the ER was swamped with victims from that bus wreck. We needed you."
"I know, Jesse, but so did Steve, and I am determined to be here for him next time he wakes up."
Knowing that it could be no other way, Jesse just gave his friend a pat on the shoulder, checked Steve over briefly, made a notation on his chart and left the father and son alone together.
Mark looked down at his son. Even in his drugged slumber, Steve seemed troubled. Anxious to soothe away the worrisome look on Steve's face, he gently stroked a hand over his son's forehead. The rough gauze of the head bandage wasn't nearly as comforting to Mark as the soft feel of his son's hair against his hand, but slowly, the furrows on Steve's brow eased away, and Mark felt better knowing he was helping his son through his presence and his touch.
Steve moaned as he woke.
"Hey there, Son," his father greeted him softly, "How are you feeling?"
"Don't know, Dad."
"You look like you're hurting."
Steve just nodded. He had a thundering headache and for some reason he remembered having an altercation with Jesse. What had they quarreled about? Sara? Yes, but he had called and apologized for that. Then what had happened? He'd had an accident. Those two punks had taken the deposits from Bob's and . . . something. He'd remember it later.
"Can I get you something?"
Steve shook his head no, and his eyes slid shut. He wasn't hungry or thirsty, just confused.
He'd had lunch here at the hospital, in his bed, then he'd fallen back to sleep. When he woke up, he'd needed to do something, and that redheaded nurse had forced him back into bed. Then Jesse had held him down as his father had sedated him.
Suddenly, his eyes flew open as he remembered what he had so desperately needed to do. He threw back the covers and tried to sit up, but the world began to list badly and he collapsed back against the pillows.
"Easy, Son, just give yourself a chance to wake up completely."
Then Steve realized that he no longer needed to go. Half a moment later, he knew what must have happened after he succumbed to the drugs, and he felt the hot blush creeping up his face, mortified to know someone else had had to deal with it while he was asleep.
He felt his father stroking his forehead gently, and pulled away angrily. His dad and Jesse were to blame for his humiliation. Why hadn't they just let him use the bathroom?
"Steve, listen to me, Son," his father said, moving to stand in his line of sight.
Furious and ashamed, Steve rolled over and pulled up the covers, for some reason that was harder to do than usual. "Just leave me alone, Dad, I'm tired."
His father came around to the other side of the bed to face him again. "Steve, please just listen to me a minute. I know you're angry with me for sedating you, but I had no choice."
"You could have let me use the commode, Dad." Steve struggled to roll over to the other side, stubborn and reluctant to face his father so soon after the mortifying turn of events.
A moment later, Mark was there again, and as Steve made to roll over once more, he put a hand on his shoulder and used 'that tone.'
"Steven Michael Sloan, you listen to me. I am trying very hard to explain some things you need to know."
Steve sighed in frustration and finally looked his father in the eye, challenging him to come up with a good explanation for what he'd done. "I'm listening."
"Son, do you remember why you're here?"
Steve thought about it a moment. He remembered the accident and the two thugs who stole the money from Bob's and . . .
The violin.
He felt tears sting his eyes. Suddenly overwrought, Steve began to apologize. "Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry. They got mom's violin! I tried to stop them, but I couldn't. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry."
Determined that he would not be forced to sedate his child again, Mark quickly drew Steve into a tight hug. "It's ok, Steve, you're all right now. Listen to me, Son, you're ok. Everything will be all right, do you hear me?" He continued rambling for several minutes until he was sure his son was calm again.
When he drew away and looked into Steve's eyes, the tears were gone, but the confusion was still evident. He knew, until he could get Steve to understand his condition, there would be more outbursts. This was the first time in a week Steve had been alert enough to attempt any type of explanation.
"Ok, Son, listen to me. I'm going to tell you some things and ask you some questions. When I ask you a yes or no question, I want you to nod or shake your head, ok?"
"Ok, Dad. I can do that."
"Steve, I'm sorry. I don't understand you. Nod your head or shake it no, do you understand what I want you to do?"
Still puzzled, but amused by his father's little game, Steve smiled and nodded his head.
"Ok, Son. A week ago, you had an accident in your truck . . . "
"It's been a WEEK?" Steve sat up, stunned, "That long? Why don't I remember any of it?"
"Steve, can you just hold on a minute and let me finish explaining? I know you're getting upset and frustrated, but I think you'll understand more if you let me finish, ok?"
"All right, Dad. I'll wait, but I can't believe I've lost whole week."
"Is that a yes or a no, Son? Can you let me finish?"
Sighing, Steve nodded. This game was quickly losing its appeal.
"You suffered a head injury, Son, and you required brain surgery."
Steve's hand flew to his head, and he was shocked to feel the gauze bandage covering his head for the first time. Suddenly, he had a vague recollection of having his head shaved.
His father smiled at him and said, "It will grow back."
Steve frowned and nodded, suddenly very worried about what else he might not have noticed before now. He became even more concerned when his father took a deep breath and took hold of both his hands.
"You have some brain damage, Steve."
Steve's eyes went wide and his breathing quickened.
"What's wrong with me, Dad? What happened? How bad is it?"
"Son, I can't understand what you're saying. I'm sorry," Mark said, squeezing his son's hands tighter. "I'm sure you want to know what's the matter, so I'm going to try to explain that first. Ok?"
Steve nodded, too frightened to talk, and suddenly remembering that his father had told him to just nod and shake his head for yes and no.
"Your injury has caused a condition called aphasia. Aphasia is a problem with comprehending and producing language. Do you understand what I have told you so far?"
Steve grew very still for a moment, then he nodded, just once.
"Ok, Son. There are three basic types of aphasia though they have a lot of variations in symptoms and severity. The three types are expressive, receptive, and global."
Steve nodded without being prompted.
"We're going to need to do some other tests to determine just what your condition is, but the fact that you seem able to indicate your understanding of what I am saying tells me your condition is probably expressive aphasia."
"Is that why no one seemed to realize that I needed to use the bathroom?"
"Son, I'm sorry, I don't understand what you are saying. When you talk, does what you say make sense to you?"
Steve spoke again and really listened to what he said.
"I don't know, Dad."
Steve fell silent, and Mark waited patiently for him to respond with a nod or a shake of his head.
"What if I don't remember what words are supposed to sound like? What if the noises I'm making make sense to me but don't mean anything?"
Steve thought a few minutes about the 'words' he'd said. He couldn't ever remember having heard them before. He knew what he'd meant to say, but what came out of his mouth didn't sound at all like what went through his head. It had been complete gibberish, like a band out of tune. Suddenly, he was very frightened.
"Dad?"
His father just looked at him.
"Dad!"
His father continued to wait for a response.
"Mark Sloan, if you can tell I am saying your name, please say so," Steve pleaded.
He knew the words were nonsense, but when his dad said, "Son? Do you hear words when you talk?" he was crushed.
Wide eyed, terrified, and on the verge of tears, Steve shook his head no, then, he leaned forward and rested his head on his father's shoulder, expressing a need for comfort that required no words.