"Joe!" gasped Frank, falling to his knees beside Joe's still form. Frank checked for a pulse. It was faint but at least there was one. He pulled out his cell phone and called an ambulance. He was talking to his dad when Vanessa, Callie, Phil and Chet came up behind him. They had decided to go looking for the two boys in case they needed a buffer.
"Is he?" Callie asked hesitantly as a crowd began to gather.
"No," Frank replied, looking up at them. "Callie, would you wait at the entrance for the paramedics? Vanessa, go find someone who works here and guys, keep everyone back, huh?"
The ambulance arrived about ten minutes later and Joe was given a quick check before being loaded onto a stretcher. An hour after that, the Hardys were sitting in the emergency waiting room at Bayport General. Frank had insisted his friends remain at the museum and they had agreed after Frank had promised to call Phil's cell just as soon as he knew something.
"How is he?" demanded Laura as Dr. Bates came into the room. He had been at the hospital checking on a patient when Joe had been brought in.
"He's been put on an IV," Dr. Bates began. "He has lost another pound since yesterday and his blood pressure as well as his blood sugar is extremely low."
"That's because he won't keep any food down," Frank said and told him about last night's failure.
"I think, perhaps, you should consider the foundation in Bridgeport," Dr. Bates suggested. "Before he reaches the point of no return."
"You mean before he dies," Frank commented and noticed Dr. Bates did not disagree.
"This isn't going to go over well with Joe," Laura said.
"He's given us no choice," Fenton told her.
"I know," she said softly as a tear slipped down the side of her face. "I know," she added even more softly.
*************************************************************
Joe opened his eyes and looked around the room he was in. There was no window except for the small one on the door that was closed. There was no other entry or exit to the room; not even a bathroom. Nor was there a portable potty in his room.
Where am I? he wondered, sitting up. The room felt comfortable even though he wore only a loose gown. He got shakily to his feet and walked to the door. Locked.
He lifted his hand and made a fist and pounded on the door. "Hey! Open up!" he shouted but no one came. After a couple of minutes Joe gave up and returned to his bed.
Almost two hours later his door opened and in walked a tall, heavyset man with wispy black tendrils and bushy black brows that overshadowed his deep green eyes. Dr. Dean Holden went to Joe's bedside and looked at the sickly youth that was sitting up and staring at him with curious blue eyes. "Hello, Joe," he said. "I am Dr. Holden."
"You're in the Wesley Lane Smith Foundation for anorexic patients in Bridgeport," Dr. Holden informed him. "Before you begin snarling and spitting let me tell you about our rules which will be followed without exception."
Joe eyed the doctor warily. His tone was one that Mr. Arnold, the vice-principal, had used the one time he had been placed in detention. He supposed authority might be the best way to deal with anorexic patients but he wasn't really one and his speech raised the hackles on Joe's back.
"All meals will be consumed or you will be force-fed," Dr. Holden began. "You are not to leave this room without a member of the staff to accompany you. You will take all medication given you and you will not make yourself throw up. If any of these rules are broken you will be confined to your bed and placed on an IV where you will receive whatever we deem necessary."
"That's a little harsh," objected Joe in a meek voice.
"Also," continued the doctor as if Joe had not spoken. "You will, beginning tomorrow, have a session with our resident psychiatrist, Dr. Feldman, with a minimum time limit of one hour."
Joe bit his bottom lip and nodded his head in acknowledgement of the rules. He had the feeling anything he said would either be ignored or used as an excuse to initiate said ultimatum.
Accepting Joe's silence as cooperation, Dr. Holden smiled. "Now that's out of the way, I am going to give you a physical and see where you are at the present. Our records are comprehensive," he continued. "And that means you will be weighed before and after each meal and before lights out and again first thing in the morning."
"Why so many times?" inquired Joe. "That's even more than my doctor wanted."
"We are a research facility," Dr, Holden explained. "We not only want to help victims of the disease but we want to cure, and if possible, prevent it. Our scales measure your weight to the gram and we can see when you lose or gain any amount of weight and what stimulus may have caused the fluctuation."
When Dr. Holden finished poking and prodding Joe, he smiled. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?" he asked.
Joe rolled his eyes as he crawled back under the cover. "I believe your family is waiting to see you," Dr. Holden said. "I need to speak with your parents for a few minutes but I will send your brother straight in. Visitation is limited to two visits per week and only by family members. Visitation is normally on Mondays and Thursdays, however, we do allow our patients the opportunity to say goodbye when they are admitted." With these words Dr. Holden left the room.
When Frank entered a couple of minutes later Joe's face broke into a big smile. "Forget it!" snapped Frank. "Don't even try to talk me into getting you out of here."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Joe assured him. "Not after all the time and effort I put into getting admitted."
"What?" a dumb-founded Frank demanded. "What are you talking about? No!" he added quickly, holding up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. You're too good at talking your way out of things but it isn't going to work this time."
"Seriously," Joe said, his expression matching his tone. "I wanted to get put in here. I had to be."
"Had to be?" Frank repeated with a snort. "I know. You have to be here. You're killing yourself but I never thought you would admit it."
"No, I'm not," Joe denied earnestly. "Not really. I knew you nor mom or dad would let me lose enough weight to be admitted here so I had to do it without telling you."
"Telling me what?" Frank asked with suspicion.
"Someone in here is a murderer," Joe answered. "I had to pretend to be sick so I could get here to investigate."
"Nice try, Baby Brother," Frank congratulated him with a hint of sarcasm. "But it isn't going to wash. You're staying."
"And I want too," insisted Joe. "But now that I'm in, I am going to need some help with this case."
"There is no case," Frank ground out through clenched teeth. "You're just saying this so we'll pull you out of here."
"No, I'm not," Joe denied again with a shake of his fair head. "Look, Crystal Lane was murdered in here last May," he said. "Her aunt asked me to find out who killed her and stop him before he killed anyone else."
"Oh, please," scoffed Frank, his utter disbelief imprinted on his features. "Why would someone ask you, only you, to find her niece's killer?" he demanded reasonably. "Why not ask Dad, or at least me too?"
"Because it was Charity," Joe stated in a hushed voice.
"Is he?" Callie asked hesitantly as a crowd began to gather.
"No," Frank replied, looking up at them. "Callie, would you wait at the entrance for the paramedics? Vanessa, go find someone who works here and guys, keep everyone back, huh?"
The ambulance arrived about ten minutes later and Joe was given a quick check before being loaded onto a stretcher. An hour after that, the Hardys were sitting in the emergency waiting room at Bayport General. Frank had insisted his friends remain at the museum and they had agreed after Frank had promised to call Phil's cell just as soon as he knew something.
"How is he?" demanded Laura as Dr. Bates came into the room. He had been at the hospital checking on a patient when Joe had been brought in.
"He's been put on an IV," Dr. Bates began. "He has lost another pound since yesterday and his blood pressure as well as his blood sugar is extremely low."
"That's because he won't keep any food down," Frank said and told him about last night's failure.
"I think, perhaps, you should consider the foundation in Bridgeport," Dr. Bates suggested. "Before he reaches the point of no return."
"You mean before he dies," Frank commented and noticed Dr. Bates did not disagree.
"This isn't going to go over well with Joe," Laura said.
"He's given us no choice," Fenton told her.
"I know," she said softly as a tear slipped down the side of her face. "I know," she added even more softly.
*************************************************************
Joe opened his eyes and looked around the room he was in. There was no window except for the small one on the door that was closed. There was no other entry or exit to the room; not even a bathroom. Nor was there a portable potty in his room.
Where am I? he wondered, sitting up. The room felt comfortable even though he wore only a loose gown. He got shakily to his feet and walked to the door. Locked.
He lifted his hand and made a fist and pounded on the door. "Hey! Open up!" he shouted but no one came. After a couple of minutes Joe gave up and returned to his bed.
Almost two hours later his door opened and in walked a tall, heavyset man with wispy black tendrils and bushy black brows that overshadowed his deep green eyes. Dr. Dean Holden went to Joe's bedside and looked at the sickly youth that was sitting up and staring at him with curious blue eyes. "Hello, Joe," he said. "I am Dr. Holden."
"You're in the Wesley Lane Smith Foundation for anorexic patients in Bridgeport," Dr. Holden informed him. "Before you begin snarling and spitting let me tell you about our rules which will be followed without exception."
Joe eyed the doctor warily. His tone was one that Mr. Arnold, the vice-principal, had used the one time he had been placed in detention. He supposed authority might be the best way to deal with anorexic patients but he wasn't really one and his speech raised the hackles on Joe's back.
"All meals will be consumed or you will be force-fed," Dr. Holden began. "You are not to leave this room without a member of the staff to accompany you. You will take all medication given you and you will not make yourself throw up. If any of these rules are broken you will be confined to your bed and placed on an IV where you will receive whatever we deem necessary."
"That's a little harsh," objected Joe in a meek voice.
"Also," continued the doctor as if Joe had not spoken. "You will, beginning tomorrow, have a session with our resident psychiatrist, Dr. Feldman, with a minimum time limit of one hour."
Joe bit his bottom lip and nodded his head in acknowledgement of the rules. He had the feeling anything he said would either be ignored or used as an excuse to initiate said ultimatum.
Accepting Joe's silence as cooperation, Dr. Holden smiled. "Now that's out of the way, I am going to give you a physical and see where you are at the present. Our records are comprehensive," he continued. "And that means you will be weighed before and after each meal and before lights out and again first thing in the morning."
"Why so many times?" inquired Joe. "That's even more than my doctor wanted."
"We are a research facility," Dr, Holden explained. "We not only want to help victims of the disease but we want to cure, and if possible, prevent it. Our scales measure your weight to the gram and we can see when you lose or gain any amount of weight and what stimulus may have caused the fluctuation."
When Dr. Holden finished poking and prodding Joe, he smiled. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?" he asked.
Joe rolled his eyes as he crawled back under the cover. "I believe your family is waiting to see you," Dr. Holden said. "I need to speak with your parents for a few minutes but I will send your brother straight in. Visitation is limited to two visits per week and only by family members. Visitation is normally on Mondays and Thursdays, however, we do allow our patients the opportunity to say goodbye when they are admitted." With these words Dr. Holden left the room.
When Frank entered a couple of minutes later Joe's face broke into a big smile. "Forget it!" snapped Frank. "Don't even try to talk me into getting you out of here."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Joe assured him. "Not after all the time and effort I put into getting admitted."
"What?" a dumb-founded Frank demanded. "What are you talking about? No!" he added quickly, holding up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. You're too good at talking your way out of things but it isn't going to work this time."
"Seriously," Joe said, his expression matching his tone. "I wanted to get put in here. I had to be."
"Had to be?" Frank repeated with a snort. "I know. You have to be here. You're killing yourself but I never thought you would admit it."
"No, I'm not," Joe denied earnestly. "Not really. I knew you nor mom or dad would let me lose enough weight to be admitted here so I had to do it without telling you."
"Telling me what?" Frank asked with suspicion.
"Someone in here is a murderer," Joe answered. "I had to pretend to be sick so I could get here to investigate."
"Nice try, Baby Brother," Frank congratulated him with a hint of sarcasm. "But it isn't going to wash. You're staying."
"And I want too," insisted Joe. "But now that I'm in, I am going to need some help with this case."
"There is no case," Frank ground out through clenched teeth. "You're just saying this so we'll pull you out of here."
"No, I'm not," Joe denied again with a shake of his fair head. "Look, Crystal Lane was murdered in here last May," he said. "Her aunt asked me to find out who killed her and stop him before he killed anyone else."
"Oh, please," scoffed Frank, his utter disbelief imprinted on his features. "Why would someone ask you, only you, to find her niece's killer?" he demanded reasonably. "Why not ask Dad, or at least me too?"
"Because it was Charity," Joe stated in a hushed voice.