Frank sighed, rolled over, reached for his brother, found the bed beside him empty. Startled, he sat up, looking through the darkness for some sign of Joe: nothing.
"Joe?" Frank called to the empty room. He shot out of bed, hard pounding, and checked the bathroom, his room, the hallway, then sprinted down the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the obvious risk in the darkness. He flicked the lights on in the dining room—nothing—and the living room—still nothing—and then, finally, the kitchen, where he froze: the cupboards were open and empty. He raced to the fridge: the same. Freezer. Almost bare.
Raced to the bathroom, finding the empty Ipecac. Felt tears burn behind his eyelids.
"JOE!" he shouted to the house, terrified of finding his brother dead in his own blood filled vomit as he raced toward the family room.
The younger Hardy was balled on the couch, clutching a pillow and sobbing hysterically.
"Joe," Frank sank to his knees beside him, the tears finally claiming him, the strain and fear and grief catching up and crashing down. "I was barely asleep an hour…"
"Oh Frank," Joe sobbed, leaning forward to clutch his brother around the neck. "I ate it all. And I threw it all up."
"Christ Joe…"
But the words finally came, the words Frank had struggled to pull from his brother's lips, the words he and his parents and the doctors and his friends had ached to hear:
"I need help."