"Whatcha doing?"

Frank glanced up from his laptop and saw Joe in the bathroom doorway. The younger Hardy had moved back to his room a week ago, but his parents had only unlocked his side of the bathroom the night before, after seeing their son struggle through his meals without slipping back into any old habits. Joe went to the hospital from 9:00 to 5:00, where he ate lunch and snack and attended group and individual therapy, nutrition counseling, and saw his psychiatrist. They'd even hinted at giving him a day or two off in the upcoming week, and Frank had promised to stay home from school and take him somewhere.

The elder Hardy offered his brother a grin. "Research."

"For school?"

"Yup."

Joe came slowly in and sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed. Frank waited, knowing he wanted to say something, but the younger Hardy was quiet.

"Something wrong?"

"No."

"How was therapy?"

"Okay."

Again, Frank waited, but Joe stayed silent.

"Joe?"

"Mind if I sit with you?"

"No. Not at all. What's going on?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "Nothing different, that is."

Frank nodded. Joe had been far more open about his emotions than he had in the past, but there were still times he'd draw the line and refuse to share anymore.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"All right."

Joe lay down and eyed the computer screen.

"You doing a report on anorexia for school?"

Frank blushed. "No. Just trying to educate myself."

"Aw, Frank. Try to stop thinking of me for a minute and do something fun. Blow bubbles or something."

"Blow bubbles? Yeah, I frequently do that when you're not sick."

Joe grinned, and for a second things seemed so close to normal Frank almost couldn't believe how sick his brother really was.

"You're looking a lot better. I mean, your face looks healthier."

The smile disappeared. Joe looked away, then drew his arms across his chest.

Frank sighed, wondering if he'd ever know the right thing to say. Nothing seemed to make his brother feel better.

"Just trying to help," he muttered. Joe turned back to him.

"I know, Frank. I'm sorry I'm so touchy."

"Don't sweat it kid."

Joe glared at him, but couldn't hide a smile. "You know I hate that name."

"Yeah, well, it's the perk of being the older one."

"Fine, old man."

Frank turned back to the screen. "Some of this stuff is really interesting, especially the sites on male eating disorders. Did you know that a lot of them start with wrestling? Some of the competitors fast for weeks before a meet, or wear trash bags and run up and down the stairs to sweat them out. Then there's laxatives and diuretics, and water pills. A lot of athletes end up sick from dehydration, not from running around too much at a sporting event but from deliberately purging their body of water for weight purposes. Hey, did I tell you? Bulimic doesn't mean you throw up. Purging can also be exercising or restricting or—"

"Frank."

The fear in Joe's voice caused Frank to whirl around. Joe had sat up straight and was gripping his wrist, his face white.

"What's wrong?"

"My heart hurts."

"What?"

The younger Hardy reached out a trembling hand toward his brother. "Feel my pulse."

Frank took it; the beat was racing. He remembered all the doctors warning what a risk Joe was for a heart-attack, how all severe anorexics were at risk when they started eating again, and felt a sudden rush of nausea.

"Okay," the elder Hardy said, struggling to keep his voice steady. Joe was sweating and trembling and not even bothering to hide his fear. "Let's go to the hospital okay? It'll be all right. Can you walk?"

Joe nodded, slowly getting to his feet. Frank took his arm and lead his brother down the stairs.

"Do you know where the car keys are?"

"No…"

"All right. Don't worry. Sit down for a sec, I think I left them up—"

Joe cried out and doubled over. Frank leapt for him as he pitched forward, catching him before he could hit the floor.

"Oh my God Frank, my chest, my arm, I can't…" he cried out again, desperately clawing at his brother's shirt.

"Lie down, breathe slowly, just hold on," Frank mumbled, fighting to detangle himself while reaching for the phone and hitting 911.

Frank spoke quickly into the phone, stroking Joe's hair as he did, tripping over the word "heart attack," trying desperately not to look at his younger brother's face when he said it.

"Frank…" Joe moaned and doubled over on the floor.

"I'm here, it's gonna be okay. Hang on, all right? Just hang on. Everything's going to be all right. There's an ambulance on the way…"

"Frank? Joe? We're ho—" the word died on his mother's lips as she and Fenton entered the kitchen. "Joe! Oh my God what's going on?"

"We think he's having a heart attack," Frank said softly, struggling to keep his voice steady for his brother's sake. Joe whimpered and clutched at Frank's shirt. The elder Hardy just smoothed his younger brother's hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead.

"Oh my God! No! Joe!" Laura rushed over and knelt on the floor, wiping tears from her younger son's face. "It'll be all right, baby. It'll be all right."

"Frank, did you call an ambulance?" Fenton asked, his voice shaky as he too, knelt beside his younger son.

"Yeah. It's on the way."

"Baby, what hurts? Your chest?"

Joe nodded. "And my…arm…I can't…get a…breath…"

"Just relax sweetie. Breathe slowly. It'll be all right."

"Mom," Joe whimpered. "I'm scared…"

Laura's eyes glistened with tears as she shifted her son's head into her lap. "Just keep breathing baby. That's it. Slowly. It's going to be all right, honey. Hospitals know what to do for heart attacks. And we'll be with you, okay? Everything's going to be all right, Joe."

Frank got to his feet and went to open the back door, listening for the sound of the ambulance siren, feeling dizzy.

Now is not the time to panic, he scolded himself, but dread was filling his chest just as pain filled his brother's. Not now, please, not after all this, not now…

Please, God.

Don't take my brother.