L'EDgendary

by dobanochi

A few years since we last saw any of them, the Peach Creek Boys and the Merry Men run into one another at just the right time, working together to undermine an oppressive city government as well as their burgeoning insecurities. An action-comedy-drama character study about friendship, leadership, self-esteem, and the divide between who we're born as and who we choose to be.

23. Run with the Hunted, Pt 1

23. "Run with the Hunted, Pt. 1"

He understood that the doctor was probably very busy doing important, possibly life-saving work, and as such he probably couldn't just step away whenever he wanted to show them preferential treatment, nor should he. But if the doctor did decide to be derelict of his duty to his other patients so he could get his fugitive friend out of there faster, Robin wouldn't have complained.

But as he sat there in the ER, staring at the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling until he saw spots, listening to the faint sounds of Little John shifting as he sat passed out with his Titans hat pulled over his eyes in the adjacent chair that was a little too small for a grizzly bear, Robin was telling himself not to be ungrateful for all that Dr. Fort had already done. Much like how the Merry Men had made a point to network with local paramedics and independent ambulance workers, they had also tried to make friends with doctors and nurses just in case they would one day need medical assistance. Of course, whereas a good fraction of freelance ambulance company employees were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed kids fresh out of college looking for work where they can tangibly help people, the kind of people who would be one hundred percent down with the Merry Men's mission, it was disturbingly difficult to find doctors who were equally as charitable. In their experience, most medical workers they had encountered actually working within the walls of a hospital were some of the most cynical and jaded people Robin and John had ever met in their lives. Most of the nurses were overworked and outwardly bitter about it, and most of the doctors were unabashedly just in their line of work for the money - ergo, not the kind of people who would be friendly to a group who prey on the rich for the benefit of the poor. During one of their many evenings off in Sherwood Forest when they had nothing better to do than to enjoy some witty banter, Robin and John had once found themselves engaged in a twenty-minute debate over whether one would have better luck making friends with the employees of a hospital or a DMV.

That's why all the Merry Men, past and present, appreciated Dr. Fort. He went into medicine as a young man with the express desire to be a good person and heal people, and unlike so many of his colleagues, he never let go of that resolve. He had specifically declined to specialize in any specific field of medicine because he wanted to be as well-rounded as possible, and that's how he wound up working double-duty as a general physician and an emergency room surgeon at Bethlehem General. Not only could he help the Merry Men out with almost any medical problem, but if there was an issue outside of his wheelhouse, he could probably recommend a specialist who wasn't in the mayor's back pocket. Fortunately, however, they hadn't needed his services nor his referrals very often.

They had first found him back during their second summer, a few days after Little John had felt what he thought was a really nasty wasp or hornet sting through the back of his pants while the gang were walking through Hermosa Park. Somewhere along the line, something caught Will's eye, and he piped up that there was a giant hole in Johnny's jeans with a lot of red residue all around it, and Little John could just about died from embarrassment when he agreed to bear his bare bear asscheeks to the rest of the guys so they could inspect the damage up close, but it was all for the best, as the other four agreed that they should probably look into finding him a doctor sooner rather than later. After a few days of going to local hospitals dressed as janitors and asking loaded questions to the staff to try to weed out which doctors might be friendly, they finally agreed to reveal themselves to the St. Bernard they met in the service corridors of Bethlehem General, who when previously asked offhandedly if he was worried about the rumors of crazy people robbing the wealthy near Sherwood Forest had said that he actually didn't really identify with rich people because he worked such long hours that he didn't really get to enjoy the excess funds in his bank account and wound up giving a lot of it to charity for lack of any other idea of what to do with it. Dr. Fort was hesitant at first, but when they offered to pay him in cash, he saw the genuine concern they had for their friend and agreed to do it for free. The doctor removed the bullet from Little John's buttock, sanitized and stitched the area to prevent further risk of infection, and listen to the five of them give a more detailed rundown of who they were, what they were all about, and how they operated (and upon realizing that they were basically living as homeless people, Dr. Fort mentioned that he was now a lot less judgmental about how anybody could go a week without changing their pants).

Dr. Fort later came in clutch when he was the doctor who helped figure out what was wrong with Tuck, but beyond that, the Merry Men were lucky enough to not be grossly injuring themselves or catching horrible diseases with any regularity. Most of the time that they came by Bethlehem General to see him, it was just to say hello, ask how he was doing, and inquire if there were any patients who needed help paying their medical bills. They sometimes went to see him for some bad sprains or nasty scratches, but they rarely had to report to him with anything even remotely life-threatening.

And that was what was driving him so crazy. Left alone with his thoughts, Robin couldn't stop thinking: they had been living on the edge for more than seven years and between the five of them, they had almost all entirely avoided injuries that required hospitalization - and now here he lay in an emergency room with the first broken bones he had ever suffered in his life, plus a severe laceration that nearly curtailed his tail. Had all those years in the clear been because they were supremely skilled at not getting hurt despite being constantly surrounded by danger? Or was it another sign that they had been running on ridiculous quantities of dumb luck all these years - and now the floor was about to drop out from underneath their feet? Robin was never one to believe that the future was written in stone, but if a time traveller were to materialize out of thin air at the foot of his bed, he would demand the time traveller answer this question: was this all just going to be a minor setback and an outlier in the trajectory of their lives, or was this going to be a harbinger of things getting much, much worse? Even if he didn't like the answer, he would have still wanted to know how it was going to be. Robin didn't fear uncertainty, but he still did much prefer certainty.

Looking at his busted right arm made him feel stupid and weak in a weird way he had never felt before, so because he didn't like that feeling, he looked at his left arm instead. They had put a paper bracelet around his wrist with somebody else's name on it, just to make sure that the other staff didn't get suspicious. "HUTCHINSON, JAMES T". While Dr. Fort was setting Robin's arm in the sling, he mentioned that he had scoured the emergency room looking for some obviously rich people whose payment details he could duplicate, but finding none, he got lucky and came across some rabbit kid from the suburbs who wound up in Bethlehem's ER distressingly often; today this kid had stubbed his foot and fractured a few toes while walking in the dark that night to get a drink of water. At first Robin expressed discomfort with screwing over a kid like that, but the doctor reassured him that the bunny and his family weren't going to be disadvantaged by this. They weren't excessively wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but with only one child, they were certainly financially comfortable, and more importantly, their work gave them good health insurance, which was a good thing since other insurance providers would have kicked them by now with how often they needed to file a claim for their son. Dr. Fort also mentioned that the parents didn't exactly have the nicest of attitudes; the dad frequently (and loudly) lamented that this "inner-city shithole" of a hospital was geographically closer to his home in Peach Creek than the nicer hospital up in Lemon Brook, and today the mother was complaining that she wanted her son to be given a wheelchair because he was "too delicate" to hobble around on crutches. Even if they did get a statement from their insurance provider noting that they had been rung up for an arm cast and some tail stitches that their son had not received (at least not on this particular day), they could probably just bitch up a storm to the insurance company and get the copay charges dropped - but with all the things their son had been through, they had probably already lost track of what treatment their son had and had not already been through; they probably wouldn't even notice.

On second thought, he needed to look at his right arm again. He needed to start getting used to the fact that this was how his arm was going to look for a while. Having never had to be treated for breaks and fractures before, he was just sort of expecting that it would be a hard plaster cast all the way around his arm. Instead it was some sort of a hard plastic shell-type thing that wrapped three-quarters of the way around his arm, which was bandaged from his fingers and past his elbow. And the plastic thing kept his arm stuck bent in a crook, which he could already tell was going to be massively inconvenient in his daily adventures. He hazily remembered the doctor and nurses trying to tell him what was going to happen with him next, but between the blood loss in his tail and the painkillers they pumped him full of, they could tell that he was in no condition to be hearing important information, so they agreed to give him the run-down later when his mind had cleared up. Well, it was later now, and although he was still woozy from the drugs, he was cogent enough to be having troublingly introspective thoughts, so he was ready for the information whenever Dr. Fort would be so kind as to come back.

Perhaps he had jinxed it. He had sworn never to lay his hands upon its handle again after that day, and now that he had, the attached arm was harmed shortly thereafter. Perhaps there was no cosmic force out there dealing out jinxes, but he could certainly see how the circumstances were thematically fitting.

He went back to staring at the ceiling, eyes half-closed. Wow, if things had been different, he really could have landed on his head and broken his neck, couldn't he? Or at the very least suffered permanent brain damage. He was trying not to dwell on what could have been, but as silly as it sounded to fret over a fairly common not-usually-life-threatening injury, he'd never had to confront the fragility of his own body and his own life like this before. He'd seen countless other people suffer much worse injuries than this, so he was surely aware of the fragility of other people's bodies, but his own? Robin had the thought that maybe everybody has this same chain of thoughts when they wind up in the emergency room for the first time: coming to terms with the fact that they are indeed capable of suffering bodily injuries that require modern medicine to heal, running self-worrying what if scenarios through their heads, and pondering one one's own mortality. He wondered if everybody goes through this cycle of grief their first time, and if he was the weird one for taking three decades to experience it his first time. That perpetually-injured bunny kid probably didn't even think twice about the existential implications of winding up in a cast anymore. Jeez, these painkillers were taking his mind to some weird places.

...Should he just tell Johnny and get it over with? Should he tell Little John while he still had a chance, just in case there soon came a time when one of them wasn't around anymore? No, no he couldn't. The rift it would surely cause between them would so deeply jeopardize their safety that it would be an almost selfish plea for forgiveness. Even if Little John didn't reject Robin for committing the act itself, he would surely reject him for lying about it for all these years. If there was one good thing about never seeing Marian again, at least Robin wouldn't have to tackle a similar quandary about how to confess about the similar lie she'd told her.

Of course, being aware that everybody probably goes through some sort of shock after their first major injury didn't make the faint but constant feeling of anxiety slip away. As he sat there in that well-lit, air-conditioned, mostly-quiet hospital room, as comfortable as one can be considering the circumstances, he had another funny thought that there was only one other time in his life when he was so afraid despite being in absolutely no apparent danger.

Well, more like one and a half. The half one was what happened right after the jailbreak and mayoral mansion heist in the late part of that fourth summer. That one was a half because it was a very strange situation and four years later, Robin still didn't know what to make of it. For one thing, it shook not only the entirety of the United States, but basically the entire world, so if Robin were to say that the situation caused him to feel persistently worried despite being in a state of physical safety, it would certainly not have been a unique sentiment. Furthermore, since he, John, and Alan were probably the last people in the city to hear about what happened that day up in New York, his mind still didn't one hundred percent grasp how everything had gone down; he and Little John still had never seen footage of it happening like everyone else in the developed world seemed to, and the two of them had had multiple friendly debates with one another about it (usually around the anniversary of the day) and whether it was downright shameful or completely natural for someone in their position to kind of want to see it just so they didn't feel left out anymore. And except to his closest and most trusted friends, Robin would never say this out loud for fear of sounding disrespectful to the victims, but… it all just seemed so cartoonish, for sheer and utter lack of a more fitting word. Robin was fifteen when that plane was bombed over Scotland, so he was fully aware of the concept of terrorist hijackings, but… multiple airplanes being flown into multiple buildings? Successfully? How could such an event ever come to pass in reality? It was another thing that Robin would be delicate about saying aloud (and Dear Reader, this narrator called Robin a motherfucker to his face when he told them this, because this narrator knew that they would similarly have to walk on eggshells for fear of coming across as callous when retelling this part), but no part of Robin ever feared his chances of being on a hijacked airplane, let alone one in such a grotesquely elaborate scheme as the one that day up the East Coast, and he would argue that deep down, most everyone else felt similarly, and rather were worried that their fate would be to be involved in such an unlikely tragedy as opposed to one specifically like that. In practice, his and John's lives were not affected by that tragedy directly so much as they were when Prince John realized he could capitalize on it by tightening up security and authority to previously-unseen levels, in a move which only seemed more and more evil every time the two of them thought back on it. Therefore that event only half-counted as a 'fear in a state of comfort' moment; it certainly caused Robin to be persistently and uncharacteristically nervous for a long while, but not because it confronted him with the idea of any perilous situation he truly believed he would ever find himself in.

The only other time that he had truly felt this gnawing, resting anxiety about his own mortality was when a different tragedy had hit much, much closer to home - a five minute drive from the house he grew up in, to be precise. Or a four minute drive if you drove like his mum did, or a half-hour walk if it was a nice day, though it may have been faster for Robin since he had long legs and it was all downhill. This also happened when Robin was fifteen - come to think of it, it was only a few months after the hijacking over Scotland. When it was tournament time on the English football calendar, matches were arranged to be held at a neutral ground, and on a Saturday in April, a club from out west and a club from down south (fittingly enough, from Nottingham) were set to kick off down by the banks of the river at the stadium which, if he was in just the right spot and looking at just the right angle, Robin could see from the upstairs window of his home on the hill.

But he had no time to look out the window that day, and he certainly didn't have time to turn on the telly and watch the match all the way through. He was preoccupied with schoolwork from the prestigious independent school Robert Scarlett was paying for him to attend. Robin actually did try to get things done while having the game on in the background, but he quickly found it distracting and told himself he needed to at least attempt to be responsible with his time, so he turned off the match after not even five minutes. He would later find out that it was hardly a few minutes after that that the match had to be called off when the officials realized something was very, very wrong.

Speaking of education, Brianna had always wanted to go to nursing school. True, she was young enough that by the time she was university-aged, the UK government had already made higher education free to open it up to more than just the rich, but while there were no tuition payments, that was still quite a few years when the student would be expected to work odd hours to pay for their own subsistence, which Brianna had tried to make work for a semester but she simply couldn't maintain the energy to excel in her classes, and going to class part-time wasn't an option because that erased the free tuition privilege. Because her large, working-class, Irish-Catholic family couldn't (or wouldn't) pay for her living expenses as an adult, she had to drop out and find work open to a woman with no secondary education in the mid-1960s.

Fast forward a decade and she found herself with the opportunity to go to nursing school with her former employer, Robert Scarlett, offering to pay for whatever she needed to support herself and her year-and-some-months-old son who shared Robert's first and middle names. Brianna knew from the very start that this was just another bargaining chip for Robert, him giving her whatever she wanted so she'd pretend that she didn't know the identity of the father of her child who already went up to her shoulders despite just learning how to toddle and who shared several other physical features with the tall, handsome, wealthy fox whom she'd been previously known to mess around with back when she was working as his maid before he found another woman whose partnership came with a financial incentive. He was also offering to have the child cared for by a hired nanny or possibly his own wife and the mother of his legitimate children until the lad was old enough for school, and this was all on top of the fact that he was already paying most of her bills as she stayed home with the baby; suffice it to say, he had his bases covered. She had her reservations about accepting his offer, but something in her brain reminded her of her girlhood dreams to help the sick and needy, and she had a funny feeling that if Florence Nightingale could be there, she'd tell Brianna that she could do more good by accepting the evil man's offer than by pridefully denying it. She ultimately agreed to accept his offer, albeit waiting a few more years until Robin was ready to start going to school by himself before she began her studies anew.

Fast forward another decade and after coming home from another long and tiring day of work to find eleven-year-old Robin already asleep, it dawned upon her: Robert had specifically put her in a line of work that would keep her from seeing her son. And the more she fretted about it, she realized he had done the same thing with Oliver. It was all part of a plan to ensure that the lad had more memories of his biological father who couldn't care less about him than he had of his own mother and stepfather. Oh, damn that shifty, crafty fox - his plan was surely working. Oliver came home from the factory even later that night to find Brianna crying in their bed, and after he hugged her for ten minutes to calm her down, they had a long and frank conversation about what she had realized. She didn't want to be a nurse anymore, but she also didn't want to give up on her own dreams just because somebody had played her dreams against her, and as much as she wanted to be around for her son, she didn't want the price of that to be failing to help so many strangers who may never be helped by somebody else. Oliver had had similar feelings about his own job, although his case was a bit different: Robert knew Oliver's personal passion was acting, so the incentive of working as the supervisor in his factory was that Oliver would have the weekends off to pursue community productions. But they came to the conclusion that they couldn't simply quit the jobs Robert had gotten them - he would pull the rug out from under them in a heartbeat. Therefore they resolved that they would maintain their respective lines of work for the good of their son, and make all the time that they had with him count. That was the night when Oliver made the tough decision to retire from community theatre so he could spend more time with Robin, and the night when Brianna told herself that she had gotten into this line of work to help people who needed her help, and by keeping her job to appease Robert Scarlett, the greatest beneficiary of this help would be Robin. This moment did successfully manage to get her through many tough days and nights of work going forward, but there were still some days when she wished she had just quit then and there.

And with all that, Dear Reader, this narrator hopes you may better understand how that Saturday in April was one of those days for her. First, Oliver came home from the work around suppertime - Robert had gotten wise to Oliver's strategy and started making Oliver and all the poor South Asian immigrants who worked at the factory come in on Saturdays as well. Robin had had his nose buried deep in a textbook, trying in vain to decipher the timeline of the War of the Roses, but when Oliver told him what had happened at the stadium, Robin immediately ran to the upstairs window to look northeast, trying to make out the area through the trees and in the setting sun. Then he tried to see if he could see the hospital his mum worked at.

Oliver talked him through what he understood to have happened, but as it was a developing story, he wasn't entirely sure himself. They agreed that when it was about time for Brianna to come home, they would be sitting by the front door waiting to greet her after what was surely the worst day of work she'd have ever had in her life. They wound up sitting there for several hours, wondering how late she would be working.

When the door finally opened, she looked like she had just seen a ghost - and considering the circumstances, she very well may have. Oliver stood and wordlessly went to embrace her, but Brianna - still looking spooked - gently denied his arms and moved toward the living room, where she laid down on the couch and stared at the extinguished television. And for Robin, who was already trying to hide how unnerved he was about what Oliver had told him, seeing the strongest woman in his life completely shut down only made him feel much, much worse. Then, in the quietest of voices, she had started murmuring about the things she had seen that fateful day.

What happened at the stadium that day was not the result of any structural failure, nor any motion of violence, nor any act of God. There were simply too many people and not enough room to breathe.

Sitting there in that hospital bed thinking back on that day, Robin still wasn't proud about how he had lost his own composure, and he was ashamed for several reasons. When his mother recounted what she had witnessed at the hospital, Robin simply needed to get out of the room, for he could not handle the imagery running through his head; while his parents later clarified that they did not hold this against him because he was still a kid, he himself had never accepted that as a valid answer. Yes, a boy of fifteen is indisputably a youth, but Robin had always been told he acted so mature for his age, and from the very day that happened, he thought running off to his room in sheer panic was indicative of a character flaw. Fifteen was right in that not-so-sweet spot where adolescents were expected to act like adults but rarely did, so he didn't know, maybe he was being too hard on his young self, but after all these years, he still felt like the world at large would admonish him for behaving so childishly. Similarly, he wondered if the world at large would have told him that it wasn't his place to feel such selfish grief; after all, he hadn't lost anybody in the disaster and didn't know anybody who was injured, all he saw was the broken look on his mother's face and heard the tale of what had happened. He was sure most would agree that he should feel bad for the victims, and indeed he did, but as he ran away to his room, staring at the walls and ceiling for hours on end, having his mum call him in sick to school on Monday because he had been unable to sleep all throughout the previous two nights, he hadn't been thinking about the victims and their families, and he was hardly even thinking of the secondhand trauma his mother had suffered; he was mostly thinking about himself, and his new paranoia of the fragility of life. He couldn't stop thinking: that can happen? There can be too many people around and you just don't have enough room to expand your lungs, and that's it, your life is over? Or if you're lucky you survive with permanent brain damage from the asphyxiation depriving your brain of oxygen? Then and now, he couldn't help but think that so many people would tell him who are you to feel sorry for yourself when you weren't even affected by this and there are people out there who are really suffering? And while he also knew that there would be others who would argue that he had indeed suffered something in seeing the hope in his mother's eyes extinguished and acquiring a previously absent case of claustrophobia - the "large crowds" kind rather than the "bedroom closet" kind, and while that had mostly went away after about a year or so, it still popped up every so often - it was much like with the other disaster where he would rather not speak about his personal feelings about it for fear that some may interpret him as making it all about himself. And right up there on his list of fears, next to claustrophobia and witnessing the death of hope, was people thinking he was selfish.

His eyes burst open. Jesus, how long had he been out for? He glanced over at Little John; he was still asleep. He glanced at the clock; it was early morning, but he didn't remember the last time he checked it so he had no frame of reference. By his guess, it could have been anywhere from five to twenty minutes. He would almost rather deal with the pain in his arm if it meant these drugs would wear off and stop fucking with his head.

But yes, laying in that bed safe and sound fearing that he could die an unnecessary death reminded him exactly of how he felt laying in bed in his home on the hillside in Loxley, staring into space, pondering if he was fated for such a demise, not openly weeping but his eyes certainly wet and glossy, afraid to even roll over on his stomach because he didn't want anything impede his ability to breathe.

And this narrator knows that was all very long-winded, Dear Reader, but now you know how Robin felt as he grew ever more impatient waiting for that dog to come back. At this point, it wasn't just a matter of wanting to get out of there fast. It was the extrovert's curse: being left alone with his own thoughts could quickly drive him crazy. As he glanced over again at the sleeping bear in the chair, all Robin could think was that right then and there, all he wanted in the world was somebody to talk to.

Little John muttered something.

"Wh-wha' wa' tha', Joh'hy?" Robin replied, himself having trouble enunciating.

"Wake up…" it sounded like he said.

"Johnny?"

"C'mon, Robin, wake up…" John murmured again, his eyes still under the cover of his hat.

"Johnny, wake up!"

"Wh-GAH!" Little John hollered with a jump, nearly falling out of his chair.

"Johnny, are you alright?"

Little John pulled the hat off the bridge of his snout and looked at Robin. And the look he gave him looked a lot like the look on Brianna's face when she came home that fateful night.

"L-Little John, Johnny... are you alright?" Robin repeated, now afraid in an entirely new way.

For a moment, Little John just stared at him, his disturbed expression not changing. After a bit, he hurriedly stood from his chair, almost stumbling out of it. "I-I'm sorry, Rob, I- I gotta take a leak." He clambered out of the room, almost making a point not to look at his friend. "Fuck, my legs fell asleep…" he could be heard saying as he entered the hallway.

And just like that, Robin was alone again, trying his best to be brave and not to let his thoughts frighten him.

Little John found the nearest men's room and went straight for the sink. He ran the cold water, cupped some in his paws, and splashed it on his face; it didn't help at all, but it just seemed like what you were supposed to do in that situation. Good God Almighty, he had never had a dream like that before in his life, and if he never had another one like it again, it would be too soon. That long talk with Otto about Robin yesterday must have done a number on his psyche.

He couldn't look at Robin. Well, he could, but… he couldn't. Not after what happened in that dream. Yes, it was just a hallucinatory fantasy, but good goddamn, he was going to have a lot of trouble erasing that one from his memory. Of course, he knew he needed to go back there and be present for his buddy in his time of need, but if he could help it, he was going to avoid eye contact, and keep the dialogue to a minimum.

He shook his face out and made a sputtering sound through his flailing lips as he did. He was going to force himself to tough it out.

When Little John ducked back into the room, Dr. Fort was already there.

"Oh. Hey, Doc," John greeted sheepishly.

"H-hi, John, um…" The St. Bernard looked puzzled. "Uh, is your face all wet?"

"Uh- Yeah, uh, I got really nasty eczema under the fur. Just needed to get some moisture in there. Don't sweat it, Doc."

And Robin was fairly certain that that was bullshit, but wanting to get to the meat of the conversation, he said nothing.

"Oh, well, if you want, I know a dermatologist who I'm like ninety percent sure would be cool with you guys-"

"No. Doc. It's fine," Little John said firmly. "A-and I'm sorry for biting your head off, but, uh… I-I'm just concerned about my little buddy right here," he said, gesturing toward Robin without looking at him. "So what's the word?"

"Well, we were waiting on you to get back, because, well, quite frankly, Robin's still a little, uh, intoxicated at the moment, so, uh, you know, just wanted to make sure I've got someone clear-headed to hear this, too. Now… are you sober?"

"Huh?"

"You guys weren't drinking or anything tonight, were you?"

Little John was mildly but visibly offended by this. "Dude… did I seem like I was drunk when we got here?"

"Well, you passed out there for a while."

"It's two in the morning, motherfucker, I'm tired."

"Well, they do call you guys the Merry Men for a reason, don't they?" Dr. Fort looked to Robin for support. "That's a Britishism meaning you guys are partying and getting drunk all the time, right?"

But Robin's addled mind was having trouble keeping up with the conversation, so he didn't say a word, instead staring at Dr. Fort like the doctor was an alien.

"Naw, man, we had to cut back on that shit. For our own safety," Little John explained.

"Oh. Alright, my bad," the doctor said with a nod as he consulted his notes, the look on his face neutral as though the whole altercation hadn't even happened. "Uh-"

"Again, I'm sorry if I'm being… combat-a-tive, I guess is the word, but-"

"It's not a word."

"Fuck you," John said, then regretted it. "See? There it is again. But yeah, sorry, I'm just tense, 'cause… I'm worried about him. I mean, look at him," said the bear who had not looked at the fox in a solid minute. "He's got a look on his face like a fish on heroin. And even when the drugs wear off, that arm's really gonna get in the way of what we do. Y'know?"

"Yeah. No, no, you're fine. You're fine…" The dog trailed off as he again glanced at his notes, still looking completely unaffected by any conflict brewing. He looked back at Robin. "Now, Robin, are you… here, right now?"

"Yessir," Robin mumbled. "I'm just, er… conserving my energy." Which wasn't a complete lie. "So tell me, Doctor… how long will it be for my arm to heal?"

The doctor turned again to Little John, who was still insisting on standing. "Did you tell him?" he asked with a hint of awkwardness.

"Tell him what?"

"Alright, so here we have our first problem…" Dr. Fort said as he went to the backlit x-rays on the wall. "So, Robin, you came in here with your arm looking like you had a second elbow. You completely fractured both your ulna and your radius - in layman's terms, you broke your arm clean. Plus you have a hairline fracture in your wrist, but let's put a pin in that."

"Okay, understood," Robin said, seeming more alert than a few minutes ago. "So is the wrist fracture what's complicating matters?"

"Uh… Robin, I'm not trying to be condescending, but have you ever broken a bone as an adult before?"

"No, sir. Not as a child, either."

"Hm. Well, that explains it."

"Explains what?" asked Little John. "Would his arm be frailer if he broke it before or something?"

"Uh, yes, but not in the way that you're thinking," the doctor said. He grabbed the x-rays off the projector and went to the side of Robin's bed to give him a closer look. "So, in adults - hell, in most adolescents, too - a complete forearm fracture won't heal itself… ever."

"Oh… I see," Robin mumbled. He was getting anxious again. "But don't people my age and older break their arms all the time and recover just fine?"

"I mean, kind of. So, the reason why with kids, you can just slap a plaster cast on them and wait for a gigantic hourglass to tick down and boom, they're hunky-dory: they're still growing. In the process of their bones growing, the bone can heal itself back into place as long as it's set correctly. Whereas you're all done growing - and as a general physician who sees a lot of my fellow canines, I've got to say, you've grown a lot, like goddamn, and to be completely honest, stretching yourself as much as you have has probably made your bones a lot, a lot more fragile. Honestly, I'm- pardon my French, I'm fucking amazed this is your first broken bone. I don't mean to worry you, but as your doctor, I would be remiss not to warn you that you should have probably suffered half a dozen fractures by now."

"Well, er… thank you for letting me know that," said Robin, who was now very worried about his body's integrity indeed.

"Then again, looking at your x-rays, your bones seem about as sturdy as those of a fox half your height, so who knows, maybe you're just SuperFox."

"That he is," Little John grumbled under his breath.

"So if I were you, I wouldn't lose sleep over it. But that's why I asked if you hadn't broken a bone since your childhood: you seemed to have an understanding of treating fractures like one would for a child. And that's nothing against you; a lot of adult arm-break virgins are like that."

"So… my arm will just never heal correctly?" Robin asked. The other two could hear his voice quivering just a teeny bit, but they both knew him well enough to know that nothing made him more unconfident than having people perceive him as unconfident.

"Not properly. Not without modern medicine, at least. But luckily for you, Robin Hood, you're not living in the Middle Ages!"

"Hm. Quite right. So… does 'medicine' in this case mean some sort of steroid to encourage bone regeneration, or…?"

The doctor looked surprised by the creativity of Robin's hypothesis. "What? N-no. Nonononono, although it would be so much easier for all of us if we had miracle pills like that. In this case, 'modern medicine' means 'modern surgery.'"

"Surgery!?"

"Mmhmm. We're gonna have to go in there on both sides of the bone and attach a metal plate to each of them."

"'Go in there'!? What, you're just going to cut into my arm all the way down to the bone?"

"Yup. Do it all the time."

"So wait," Little John cut in, "there's no other solution here other than to nail some iron to his bones!? So the kid'll never be able to go through a metal detector again?"

"Of course he can go through them, they're just gonna have to wave over him with one of those wand thingies to find out what's making it ding."

"Every single time?"

"Yeah, but you know what? I'd argue there are worse fates."

"Well, if this is how it must be," said Robin morosely, "let's cut me open then."

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa, slow down there, trigger. We're not doing the surgery now."

"We're not?"

"Naw, man. We've got to wait a few days for the-"

"A few days? Pardon my impatience, my good doctor, but surely you understand that with our lifestyle, we don't have a few days to waste with me laid up with a broken arm!"

The dog looked pensive as he chose his next words very wisely. "I do understand, Robin, and I had a feeling that this conversation would wind up going in this direction." He turned to Little John. "You sure you don't want to sit down, John? I've got a feeling we've still got a lot to talk about."

"I'm good, thanks," the bear said, looking frustrated, but not necessarily frustrated at the doctor.

"Alright, so, Robin… not to be petty, but you did cut me off. We need to wait for the inflammation to go down or we might fuck up a bunch of veins and arteries. The only time we would perform arm-fracture surgery immediately is when the bone fragments break the skin, because of the risk of infection - and quite frankly, looking at your arm, the only way that your injury could have been worse is if it did break the skin."

"Alright, then," said Robin, "let's pretend that that did happen and let's get to work."

The doctor looked thoroughly annoyed by that suggestion, and Robin realized that this may not have been the best time for his trademark go-getterism.

"So as I was saying…" Dr. Fort continued, "as it is, you may have already done some nasty damage to the nerves in your arm from that break. And beyond that - you know what? Lemme put it this way. You, Robin… as a consequence of your line of work… I just sort of expect that you're gonna feel like you won't be able to follow my orders to go easy on your arm for the next six-to-eight weeks. Am I correct?"

"Er… can you define 'going easy on it,' please?"

"Literally don't exert it in any way. Don't lift anything, don't push with it, don't pull with it - that includes the string on a bow and arrow - and remember, you still have that hairline fracture in your wrist. There's nothing I can do about that; that's gotta heal by itself, you've just gotta give it time. And this is all after I go in there and physically reinforce your bones with literal fuckin' stainless steel. Absolutely no bearing weight on your right arm… at all. None-zo. Capiche?"

"Ah, well, er… it will certainly be a challenge…" Robin muttered with uncharacteristic bashfulness.

"I'm sure it will be. Now let me explain why I'm being such a stick-in-the-mud about this. As it is now - I know I keep using that phrase, but goddammit, just roll with it - as it is now, even if everything goes right - even if surgery goes flawlessly, even if your bones snap right back into place when I'm resetting them, even if you put absolutely no pressure on your arm until August, even if you do the physical therapy exercises I'm gonna assign you through September - there's still a chance that something out of our control'll go wrong. I'm used to giving this speech, so here's the Big Four complications. Number One, regular surgery complications; as with any surgery, there's a chance something might go wrong, even if we're extremely careful - most commonly, an infection can break out. Number Two, you might just never get used to the plates being in there - you're probably gonna be able to feel them under your skin, under your muscle, and there's a chance that they're gonna hurt like hell, or they might itch like a son of a bitch. You're probably gonna be able to feel the changes in the atmospheric pressure every time it rains. And there won't be anything we'll be able to do about that except wait, like, a year until your arm is finally healed correctly - except, wait, Number Three, they still might not heal correctly; the bone can pull apart, or the metalware can shift, or, fuck it, if there's a bunch of tiny fragments in there, they might just not ever come together; looking at your x-rays, it's mostly a clean break in both the ulna and the radius, but I do see a few tiny pieces in there, so you're not completely in the clear - again, not to scare you, but I need you to understand this. And Number Four - this is the most common one - you might not be able to move your arm like you used to. Nothing too life-alteringly severe, but stuff that involves rotating your forearm. So you might find yourself thinking, 'hey, why can't I turn this door knob from this angle?' or 'hey, why can't I open this jar of peanut butter all the way anymore?' Little shit like that. And - John, you're hearing this too, right?"

"Yessir."

"So Robin… I get it. You and I both do what we do because we want to use our skills to help people who can't help themselves. But you've either got to take the physical element out of your adventures or you've just got to go back to the drawing board if you want there to be a decent chance that your arm ever goes back to normal, because if you mess around with it, the chances of something going wrong go up exponentially, especially the Bone Not Healing and the Limited Mobility parts."

After a long while of politely returning eye contact, Robin looked down introspectively, first staring at the Angels shirt he was still wearing, then at the sling on his arm.

Dr. Fort crossed his arms in that tough-love sort of way. "I knew this was gonna be hard for you to hear, bud, but you've got to think long-term versus short-term here. And hey, maybe your idea of heroism is that you push through an injury and permanently fuck up your body in the process, but… I'm gonna have to disagree with you on that one there. I'm gonna think you'll come to regret it if you do."

Robin was still staring at his arm. Dr. Fort glanced again at Little John, who for several reasons still couldn't bring himself to look at the fox.

"What's going through your head right now, Robin?" the doctor asked.

Robin took a deep breath and still didn't look up. "Am… am I getting old?"

"Uh… remind me how old you are?"

"Thirty-one." Robin lifted his arm and brought it closer to himself to better inspect it. "Thirty-two in November."

"W-well, there ya go. You see? You're younger than me. You're in that gray area. I wouldn't call you a young adult by any stretch, but you're hardly middle aged. I don't know, man, some people think youth ends at twenty-five, some people think it ends at forty-five."

For this, Little John dared to look in Robin's general direction. "Kid, I'm almost forty, how do you think I feel?"

"You see?" asked Dr. Fort. "This guy thinks you're a kid. Why, is this all… is this all making you feel, uh… aged?"

"That it is," Robin spoke quietly. "I… I don't mean to be a whiner, but-"

"Robin, don't worry, these thoughts are perfectly natural. It's called a midlife crisis."

"But I thought I was too young for even a midlife crisis! Oh… where oh where does the time go?..."

"Robin, I'm sorry if I bummed you out, but like I said, even if you were ten years younger, we'd probably have to go to surgery. The important thing is that you're living in the developed world in the modern day and we have the knowledge of how to make you better, whereas with our primitive ancestors, running around on all fours, if you broke a limb, that's it, you're done, dead. It's something I heard in medical school and it makes perfect sense: a species is civilized when a member of its population can break a limb and still recover. Yes, as we go along, we're gonna get bumps and bruises, and not all of them are going to heal right, but what's important is that we can keep on chugging. And if you can manage to take a break for a while, I can probably keep you chugging for a lot longer. Sound good?"

Despite his eyes also staying fixed on Robin's sling, Little John could tell that his friend needed some reassurance. "The doctor makes a good point, Rob."

"So, how you feeling after all that?" the doctor asked.

That's when Robin made eye contact with the doctor again. "I have a, er… a question that may... seem unrelated. I know you're dreadfully busy, Doctor, but do you have the time?"

"Uh… sure. Fire away."

"So… my mother was a nurse. Not a doctor, but she certainly knew more about health and medicine than a random person off the street."

"...Go on."

"She, er… before she- no, excuse me, before I left England… for university in New York… she told me about a, er… something from when I was very young."

"...Yes?"

"It was a scene from, er… I had been at a pediatrician's appointment. I think that this was before I had even entered school. I was there because my, er, growth spurts were so bad that… they had to put me on prescription painkillers, which I would be on on-and-off straight through my teenage years. And the doctor… according to my mum… the doctor pulled her aside when he sent me to the loo to wee in a cup for some reason, and… he told her that, er, as a consequence of… my growth… I shouldn't expect to live very long."

Little John, who by now was staring at Robin's shoulder, was visibly disturbed by that revelation, his eyes bursting open and his head jerking back a bit. As for Dr. Fort, he looked sort of compassionately intrigued.

"I see," said the St. Bernard softly.

"But my mother - a nurse - she told me as an adult that this had transpired and, because she knew a thing or two about medicine herself, she told me that this doctor was an idiot and that she could see that I was perfectly healthy despite being… 'stretched,' as you put it, Doctor… so my question to you is, Doctor: was my mum wrong, and that doctor was right?"

And Dr. Fort looked like he was choosing his words carefully again.

"Because this whole thing has certainly made me feel fragile," Robin continued, "like she said that doctor said I would be. And I never worried about it because I trusted my mother's judgment, but now-"

"No, no, I understand, I understand," the doctor interrupted. "I don't mean to cut you off, but I understand. Okay, so… the short answer is… don't worry about it. Just don't. It's called the nocebo effect; it's like the pla-cebo effect, but it's pure evil, and if you're so thoroughly convinced that something's wrong with you medically, it'll become a self-fulfilling prophecy. The sapient mind is wacky like that. The long answer is… your mom was probably right, and here's why. So there's two types of really, really tall mammals: natural giants and pituitary giants. Now, pituitary gigantism is so rare that it was hardly a five-minute discussion in med school, but I've read up on gigantism cases on my own, and I already know that's not you. If you had pituitary gigantism, you'd've had a tumor in your head squeezing ridiculous amounts of hormones out and you wouldn't have ever stopped growing without brain surgery, and even then you probably would have chronic numbness in your extremities from lack of circulation and you would probably have been dead by now anyway because of your body being as fragile as a paper doll after being stretched so far - you never had brain surgery, now have you?"

"No, but when my mum told me about the pediatrician's warning, she did mention that he had recommended I get an MRI to see if I had a tumor just like you described, but she knew that wasn't the case because she knew I was likely just taking after my father."

"You see? Now how tall was your father?"

"Four-four."

And Dr. Fort was expecting something like that. "Sounds about right. And you suggested your mother wasn't gigantic, but was she on the taller side, too?"

"Er, no, she was actually rather petite. Two-nine or two-ten, I believe. Honestly, I can hardly remember a time when I was smaller than her."

Dr. Fort was not expecting something like that. "Well... still, it sounds like you just hit the genetic lottery. Like I said, maybe you're SuperFox. I'm serious, if you ever go back to being a free man, maybe hit up the people at Guinness World Records; I know you aren't the tallest fox ever, but you might be the tallest one without a medical issue directly causing it."

Meanwhile, Little John was back to being unable to look at the guy who just kept finding new things for him to envy.

"Look, you might still be at an increased risk for some things; like I said, your bones look almost as sturdy as the bones of a fox half your size - still a little on the thin side, but absolutely nothing alarming. Back and joint problems are gonna come sooner than later for you, but honestly, that happens eventually to most people. And it's just a known fact by now that bigger people are more likely to get-" (and he was about to mention that taller and larger people were more likely to get cancer because having more cells means more chances that one of them would mutate, but then he thought the eight-hundred-pound grizzly bear standing right behind him might not want to hear that) "-th-um… more likely to get into accidents, like just regular clumsy boom-fall-down accidents; the bigger you are, the harder you fall, like they say; the more space you physically occupy, the more of a chance that something else occupying that space harms you, like a chair that's too small and collapses under you, or you get plunked by a stray bullet."

"Hmph," Little John grumbled, "don't I know it?"

"But if you were extremely short, you'd have an entirely different set of hazards. So yeah, in summation, I don't know your entire medical history inside and out, but as far as I can tell, your mom seems like she was right, you seem perfectly healthy for someone your size - remarkably healthy for someone your size, I should say, because you are. So don't sweat it." But then the doctor had one last question: "Why, does your dad's side of the family have a history of, uh… not-... longevity?"

"I don't know my father's family that well," Robin stated solemnly.

"Aw. My bad. But… yeah. You feeling better now? Not feeling like a decrepit old man anymore?"

Robin took a deep breath and shifted his eyes toward open space again. "It'll take some time to move past this, but I think in due time…" and he trailed off just like that.

"Alright. So. You said you were on prescription painkillers as a kid?"

"Yes, but I don't recall the name."

"No worries," Dr. Fort said as he dug around in his pocket. "We can discuss the drug regimen later, but for now…" He produced a pager, the device vibrating as its screen was illuminated neon green, and he leaned in with a cheeky smile. "...this thing's been buzzing in my pocket for twenty minutes. Duty calls!" he declared as he made his way for the door.

"Wait, Doctor!"

The dog stopped and turned back to the fox. "What's up?"

"Pardon my insolence, but I truly still don't understand… why can't we just treat my arm as if it had an open wound and needed surgery right away? I understand you're busy, but-"

"Robin, it's not just because I'm busy, it's for your own good."

"And I understand that, Doctor, but surely you understand that I would hardly survive running from the law with an arm that's not even in the process of healing. If the surgery were performed and the healing process began immediately, that would already be a massive advantage over my current condition."

The doctor crossed his arms again, looking like he was pissed at Robin for making him feel morally conflicted.

"Have you heard the news of all they're doing now to try to capture us, Doctor?" Robin continued. "They've even merged the city and county police departments in an attempt to gain strength against us. Hell, I'm sitting in this hospital bed in the first place because they tried to saw down the Major Oak!"

Robin looked determined as he returned the St. Bernard's glare.

"You got into this line of work to help people," said Robin. "Just think of how many more people will be helped if you help me now. We can wait until you're not busy anymore, but we can't wait much longer after that."

Now it was Dr. Fort who was taking deep, pensive breaths through his nose. Then in a snap moment, he pointed at the clock. "Three o'clock. I get off at three o'clock." He turned to Little John as he went digging in his back pocket, then grabbed John's right paw, produced a twenty-dollar bill, and shoved the money in his hand. "The Walgreens at 53rd and Montana. Tylenol and Advil both. If they don't have Advil for whatever reason, get Motrin. Give him one of each when you get back. Also get me an energy drink and get yourself one as well - you're gonna be my nurse."

"I am?"

"Mmhmm. And you're gonna help me figure out how to collapse the rear seats in my SUV so you can fit in the back and we can take him to my house. Luckily for you, I'm too tall to drive a medium-mammal sports car and too short to drive a large-mammal sports car, so I've got a ride you might actually be able to squeeze into." He turned to Robin: "You. You listening to me?"

"Yes."

"You all here upstairs?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Does your thumb count?"

"My thumb isn't up."

"Just making sure you're all here, Doctor."

Dr. Fort threw his arms up and rolled his eyes. He spoke in a hushed tone: "So you listen: I can lose my fucking license in a heartbeat if I get caught doing this. And unlike you guys, I'm not comfortable working underground. We're gonna be doing this on my dining room table. The lighting won't be the best and it won't be nearly as spotlessly sanitized as a hospital, so if a speck of dust falls in your arm while it's wide open and you get an infection- I fucking warned you. And I should be doing this with multiple assistants, but if this is how you want it, then that's how we're gonna have to do it. So if something goes wrong and you wind up dead, I swear to God I'll bury you in my backyard right next to my iguana."

"Your iguana!?"

"Oh no, what happened to Iggy?" asked Little John.

"I dunno, he decided he was just done iguana-ing. But I'll try to get everything I need in a bag without looking too suspicious. Let's see, what'll I need? Hm, hrm… Oh, goddammit, I won't have anything to knock you out with!"

"We always have chloroform," suggested Robin.

"And those pills that Thor makes that aren't really roofies but we don't know what else to call them," added John.

"I-I mean, I was gonna suggest John, you go find a janitor's uni somewhere and sneak a nitrous oxide machine out the emergency exit, but if you-"

"I can do that, too."

"But can we fit it in my car with you in there and still not be seen?"

"We'll figure something out."

Dr. Fort looked up at Little John with a look that signalled that he felt like John was fucking with him, and John replied with a Bugs-Bunny-esque smirk. The doctor turned back to Robin, and pointed as he said, "if a civilian you can trust asks you who it was who patched up their favorite local hero, you damn well better tell them it was Geoff Fort, M.D. But if it's someone you don't trust, or someone you don't know if you can trust, or if it's someone you know is less than three degrees of separation from a medical professional in this town... you damn well better keep your mouth shut. Comprende?"

"Oui oui, mon capitaine."

"And if you get found out anyway, you're always welcome to join us!" Little John added, keeping that grin on his face.

Dr. Fort just took a deep breath again and consulted his pager.

"Doctor, you know we appreciate everything you do," Robin reassured, back to being genuine.

The St. Bernard just stared at him for a moment before turning back to the door. "Get the goods, John," he said with a finger wag as he made his way toward the door. "I'll see you boys later."

"You're the man, Geoffrey!" Little John exalted as Dr. Fort slid the glass door shut. Then the bear turned back to the fox and was looking a lot less enthusiastic. "For real though, you feeling better?" He was forcing himself to make eye contact and it was everything he could do to not start wigging out because of it.

"I will in due time, Johnny. I appreciate your concern."

"...You never told me that a doctor thought you were going to die young," Little John said, sounding almost lost. "And you never told me they had to put you on painkillers for most of your childhood because you were so freaking huge."

"There's a lot I haven't told you, Johnny." And how.

"Yeah. Why not?"

And all Robin could think to do was shrug. "Never wanted to."

That was good enough of a reason for Little John to break eye contact. He turned toward the door and slid it open. "I'm gonna go get your drugs. I'll be right back." He walked out, closed the door behind him, and immediately shuddered in full view of the hospital staff in the hallway. He made his way for the exit to pick up the pills and hopefully clear his head.

And just like that, Robin was alone with his thoughts again. Now, the whole thing about finding out his body would no longer regenerate itself as it did in his youth and the tangential panic about the fidelity of his physical frame - was that an entirely new and separate instance of "feeling persistent emotional panic in a persistently physically comfortable spot," or was it just a continuation of the one from before the doctor walked in? Well, in any case, he would have plenty of time to ponder it.

And as he did ponder it, he realized there had been another one of those "half-examples" of it hiding right under his nose: it was the months after he lost Will. That was a half-example because while it did cause him to feel panicked with thoughts of unnecessary demises while he sat perfectly still under the canopy of Sherwood Forest, it was not his own mortality that he was concerned with.

-IllI-

The surgery was a success, but dear God what a mess it was. For one thing, Dr. Fort incorrectly guessed what size of surgical masks would fit Nurse Johnny; trying to tape a paper towel over his nose and mouth wouldn't stick, and he couldn't breathe through a washcloth or dishtowel, so for lack of a better option, Dr. Fort wound up getting creative with a pair of tube socks, cutting them lengthwise and stapling them into a loop, wrapping them around the bear's snout and fastening them tightly with some binder clips at the back of his head; two sacrificed socks turned into six when Little John puked in the first two pairs, both times the vomit leaking out and onto the floor, the second time almost getting into the incision in Robin's arm, which was open at least four inches wide and stretched the length of his elbow to his wrist. John had insisted prior to the operation that he was fine looking at blood and innards, but afterwards stated that it was something about how unnaturally straight and clean the incisions were that made his stomach churn; he likened seeing the doctor scalpel through each individual layer of his friend's skin and flesh to watching someone gut a fish, and the way that the doctor was cutting Robin up as he lay there perfectly still with his eyes closed and his chest barely breathing made the whole scene look not unlike an autopsy. Then there was the matter of the hair; not just the fur shaved off of Robin's arm which they were pretty sure they had done a good job of cleaning up but kept magically reappearing on the operating table, but also all the facial fur that Little John's sock-mask wasn't covering, and individual hair follicle liable to fall out of his head and into the fox's arm at any moment, as well as all the little fuzzies from the sock-mask itself; both of the latter two problems surely could have been avoided had the full-face paper scrub masks Dr. Fort had brought from the hospital just fit correctly over Little John's gigantic head. And then there was the blood. It was simply everywhere. The doctor knew that there would be blood, and Little John wasn't surprised considering what they were doing, but there was just so much of it that the dog was seriously wondering aloud whether this fox was a hemophiliac and didn't have the courtesy to warn him. Blood was everywhere; it was on the pillows laid on the dining room table to make a bed suitable for the patient, and it was all over the sheets that swaddled him; it was all over the aprons the doctor and his nurse wore, and somehow wound up on their civilian clothes under that; it was on their pants, and their shoes, and their masks; constellations of maroon droplets stained the wood floor and some even made it to the walls; the towels the doctor had brought were soaked through and were quickly depleted, and he remarked that he would have to burn many of these ruined fabrics just so nobody would ever think he committed a murder. Even as they operated, blood was expected to fill the cavity of the operation site, but they could hardly take a full step forward before they had to stop to vacuum up the blood to clear the area out again; Dr. Fort grumbled angrily several times that this is precisely why he wanted to wait for the swelling to subside first.

And the procedure was not without its hiccoughs. The doctor had tried to move some table lamps around so that they would not be reliant solely on the light from the ceiling fan's bulbs, which would surely be blocked by their own shadows when they leaned over the inspection area; alas, they simply could not find an angle to place the lamps where the light was helpful, so Little John had to spend much of the duration with his arm going numb as he held up an old Coleman camping lantern. Dr. Fort had also spent much of the buildup fretting that the laughing gas would not be enough to keep Robin sedated, but whereas surgeries of this scale typically require intravenous as well as gaseous anesthesia, the doctor hadn't even thought about bringing an IV drip because anesthesia was not his area of expertise and he did not feel confident monitoring the IV machine while also performing surgery; instead, they cut the gas before the procedure had even begun, woke Robin up with smelling salts, and had him swallow one of the Merry Men's amnesia pills, followed by Little John chloroforming him just for good measure before hooking him back up to the gas.

Then there was the point when, shortly after attaching his third sock-mask after soiling his second one when he vomited at the sound of the doctor power-drilling a screw into his friend's bones, Little John realized he desperately needed to relieve himself. The doctor demanded that John remove his mask, cap, gloves, apron, and paper scrub jacket before going to ensure that no particles attached themselves to his clothes and made their way into Robin's open wound; Dr. Fort mentioned that if he were really precise about this, he would demand Little John strip nearly naked to erase any chance of cross-contamination in the operation space. John did doff his medical attire, but seemed profoundly distressed as he did, and the sounds coming from the bathroom as soon as the door closed made it clear that the bear wasn't just being dramatic. When he came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, looking thoroughly embarrassed, the doctor made his nurse scrub his arms and paws with copious amounts of soap under his personal supervision; Little John had already washed with soap in the bathroom, something he had always made a point to do since his father and brother never did, but knowing the seriousness of the situation, he complied. Then just as soon as he had put his medical garb back on, a second wave of gastrointestinal distress came upon him. When he was washing his arms under the dog's guidance the second time, he proposed a sound theory: it was a product of the ridiculous amount of caffeine in that Red Bull he drank. Unfortunately, the doctor ate immaculately and almost never experienced diarrhea himself, and as such he did not keep Imodium in his home nor a generic equivalent, and he surely couldn't stop in the middle of the operation to run to CVS and go get some. They still had a long way to go; they had just begun drilling the plate onto Robin's radius bone when the trouble began and they still had to finish that, clean it all out, sew it up, and repeat the whole process on the other side of his arm with his ulna. Therefore he and his afflicted nurse carried on through this dilemma, stopping every twenty minutes for ten minutes at a time so Little John could purge his body of what it perceived to be poison; at a certain point, Dr. Fort just said fuck it and told Little John to keep his shirt on when he went to the bathroom to save them time from him getting completely redressed again; at a certain other point, while the doctor was waiting for Little John to do his business once again, he was seriously considering going down the street and asking for the assistance of a 17-year-old neighbor who he knew was hoping to go into medicine when she got to college, and although he knew it would be supremely weird and inappropriate for an adult to go knocking on a teenage girl's door in the dead of night, he was almost about to do it because it would have been supremely helpful to have a second assistant, Little John's paws were too big to manipulate some of the instuments anyway, the kid sure could use the first-hand experience, and besides, the kid was a notorious night-owl and it was summer break, so she was probably still awake anyway, but as Dr. Fort made his way to the door he realized that the sun was already coming up and it wasn't night anymore, and that was the only thing that stopped him from soliciting the neighbor kid's assistance.

It was about eight in the morning when all was said and done. The doctor had completely exhausted all of the sanitizing saline solution that he had brought, terrifiedly certain that after all the mishaps and blatant disregard for SOP regarding hygiene, they had maximized the risk of infection; as he frantically cleaned and recleaned the affected area, he dictated a list of doctors and nurses for Little John to write down, in descending order of how confident Dr. Fort was that they would be cool with helping wanted criminals who targeted the wealthy, who might be able to help them if they should notice pus oozing out of Robin's cast in the coming days if he himself wasn't available to help them. He asked Little John to mop up the floor, sponge off the table, and throw all the sheets and towels in the laundry machine while he laid Robin out on his kitchen counter, wrapped his arm in bands of cotton, and wrapped a thick layer of green fiberglass (the doctor figured Robin would appreciate that color choice) around that, running the bounded arm under the kitchen sink so it would meld and setting it out to dry; the patient had begged for a cast that allowed him to freely use his elbow, so the doctor granted his request, getting as close to the elbow with the fiberglass as he could without impeding its motion but also without failing to cover the stitched area. He had Little John carry Robin - who at this point had been off of the nitrous oxide for twenty minutes but was still out like a light - up to his guest room to put him to sleep, and insisted Little John crash in the doctor's own bed. John was worried about the fact that Robin wasn't waking up, but Dr. Fort insisted that they had done everything the best they could and Robin was likely just fine, just needing some rest, but added more ominously that even if there was something keeping him unconscious, there was nothing they could do about it just yet. The doctor made his trip to the pharmacy, buying some anti-diarrheal pills for Little John as well as a single-serving sleeve of Oreos for Robin when he woke up, seeing as the guy had bled enough that the doctor might as well give him the standard blood-sugar-replenishing treat given to blood donors. Dr. Fort came home, left the pills and the cookies on the kitchen table, and immediately collapsed crying on his couch, wondering whether he had made the ethically correct decision. He eventually passed out sometime around nine-thirty in the morning.

At a quarter to two in the afternoon, Dr. Fort woke up and went to wake his guests. Robin came to groggily, saying that he felt like he had slept for a week but still didn't have enough energy, and complaining that his arm seemed to be throbbing. The doctor administered more Tylenol and Advil and had him eat the cookies, and since Robin hadn't eaten for nearly a day, he did not deny the offer. Dr. Fort then woke up Little John to bring him to see Robin and show him that everything seemed to be alright, all the while still warning about the risk of a delayed infection as well as lecturing about all Robin could and could not (mostly could not) do with his arm through the end of July.

Then he mentioned almost as an afterthought that he had an hour to fight his way through traffic all the way across town and get back to Bethlehem by 3 for another twelve-hour shift in the ER. He said that he could give them a ride back west (though they would have to come back one night to help him sneak the laughing gas machine back into the hospital), and if traffic cooperated and he could get to Georgetown early, he could probably drop them off at Sherwood. He did express concern for Little John's seating arrangement, as larger mammals squeezing haphazardly into their smaller friends' vehicles was rather common but still not exactly legal, so the doctor was hoping that he wouldn't get pulled over for having a passenger not wearing a seatbelt, but John and Robin agreed that if that should happen, the dog should just flash his hospital ID and say he was trying to get these guys to the ER, ASAP. Now bashfully excited by the prospect of being sneaky, the St. Bernard shepherded his patient and nurse back to his Escalade.

And the doctor almost did need to try to be sneaky as he found himself driving down 50th Street toward the hospital.

"...Aw, God, there's a pig two cars behind me," Dr. Fort muttered under his breath.

"So?" asked Little John, who was laid out on his stomach over two rows of collapsed seats with his rump still squeezed against the roof of the cabin, his head resting on his crossed arms and popping out between the driver's and passenger's seats.

"Look."

Little John turned and tried to look out the rear window past his own mass. "Oh, you mean a cop!"

"Yeah, exactly! I thought that's what you guys called cops."

"Wh-!? Doc, we're not Alan. That sounds like something he would say."

"Yeah, if Alan were with us," Robin added, "he would have taken the chance to ransack all the nice things in your house… or perhaps we would never have even made it to your house because he wouldn't have allowed us to associate cordially with a man who takes home a hefty paycheck." His head was starting to clear up, but he still would be in no mood for robbing today; his arm felt like a robotic spider had laid metallic eggs inside of it.

"Yeah, if Tuck had gotten sick a year later, Alan probably wouldn't have been around for it, just to avoid you and your colleagues."

"Well, I'm flattered that you think I'm one of the good rich people," said the doctor, "even if the other rich people don't let me hang out with them anyway."

"Well hey man, we're always going to appreciate everything you've done to help us out over the years." Little John bumped Robin's shoulder with his nose. "Right, Rob?" If there was one good thing about witnessing all that blood and gore during the surgery, it was that it thoroughly took John's mind off that unsettling dream he'd had.

"Hey, it's been my pleasure," Dr. Fort answered before Robin could reply.

"This Cadillac's a bit posh, though," Robin said groggily; his head still wasn't completely clear, and he was still liable to say whatever crossed his mind, social graces be damned.

"Wh-whaddaya mean?" asked the doctor.

"It's just a bit excessive, you know?" The way he talked made the other two feel like they were the ones in a semi-dreamlike state instead of him. "Like… we could have done something good with the money…"

"Rob, are you falling asleep again?" Little John asked.

"Hey," Dr. Fort protested, "like I said, I'm the only doctor at that hospital who doesn't drive a convertible! Just let me have this one nice thing without making me feel guilty!"

"To be fair, Doc, you didn't say that," said John, "you said you were too small for a big sports car and too big for a medium sports car."

"Well the sentence wouldn't have made any sense if I included that detail, so I hoped you would put the pieces togeth-!"

BEEEEEP!

"Ya got the green, Doc."

"Shit, you're right," he muttered as he pressed the accelerator. "Hopefully that doesn't get the cop's attention." He was silent for a moment. "Sorry I freaked out like that."

"Hey, Doc, you're perfectly mellow-yellow ninety percent of the time, but between the 'pig' thing and you immediately getting defensive about the Cadillac, sometimes that sheltered little nerd with his nose buried in a medical textbook still comes out."

"Well, hey, as long as you guys and the rest of the world don't think that neurotic little shit is who I really am."

"Everything we are is who we really are, Doc," said Little John; the doctor could hear in his voice that he was suddenly much more serious. "But I'm not judging; just because that's who you are now doesn't mean that's who you're gonna be forever. And it takes a long, long time to become the people we want to be - God knows I still ain't there - but what's important is that we keep trying to change for the better. Right?"

Dr. Fort snuck a glance at Little John's face resting on the center console before turning back to the road. "R-uh-right." He could tell that the bear had said that to convince himself of what he was saying just as much as he was trying to convince him.

And John knew that the doctor knew, but he wasn't embarrassed to be found out. If anything, he was hoping that that made it clearer that the doctor reminded him of himself and that he was speaking from a place of empathy, all without him having to destroy any semblance of subtlety and come right out and say so. As they say, sometimes giving advice can be better than receiving it if it makes you own what you're saying. Little John nudged Robin with his snout again. "Right, Rob?"

Robin had passed out again.

"Doc, are you sure it's okay that he keeps passing out?" John asked.

Without taking his eyes off the road, the doctor grabbed Robin by the shoulder and shook him. "C'mon, Robin, wake up!"

"Hrmrhrm?" Robin grumbled.

"Drink some of your Coke." The three of them had stopped for food at a Wendy's along the way; the doctor would usually never consume junk food himself, let alone encourage others to consume it, but all of them were famished and weren't going to be picky.

"He got a Sprite," John corrected.

"Wha-? Then drink some of my Coke!" The doctor picked up his cup and held it out in Robin's general direction. "C'mon, ya idiot, you need the caffeine! Why'd you get a decaf soda?"

"Hey, Doc, don't call my buddy an idiot when you know his head's fucked up and he can't make sound decisions," shot Little John. "Hey, maybe you're the idiot for forgetting he got a Sprite when you took his fucking order at the drive-thru and you could have forced him to get a Coke anyway!"

"I just used modern-day magic to fix your friend's arm! Does that sound like something an idiot would do?" Somewhere during the doctor's sentence, Robin took the cup with his good hand, drew unenthusiastically from the straw a few times, and let his head fall back against the car seat with his eyes closed. The doctor continued: "And I did it all for free! You ought to be nicer to me!"

"That skittish little nerd's coming out again, Geoffrey. Is this the kind of person you want to be?"

"No, but I don't need you challenging me every two minutes in ways that make me default back to that!"

"Every decision we make is a challenge to be who we want to be, Doc. It's not just me giving you challenges. It's the world itself. Can you handle them?"

"I drank some of the Coke," Robin muttered sleepily, his closed eyes still facing the roof.

"I didn't mean to be so harsh on you, Robin," said the doctor, "but we need to get some food and liquid in you to get you running again. Even if it is this trash."

"The kid didn't even finish his chicken nuggets," Little John noted as he raised his head to get a better vantage point into the bag leaking grease into the fox's lap.

"Robin, finish your chicken nuggets, you need to eat something."

"Aw, you're not me mum…" the Yorkshireman grumbled.

"I'm sorry, did Mr. Class-and-Elegance right here just say 'me mom'?"

"His old British-Redneck accent's coming out," Little John said. "That usually only happens when he's really drunk or really, really tired."

"Hey, we're all tired. When you guys get back to your camp, just go back to sleep for as long as you want to. Doctor's orders."

"I didn't want to eat the chicken nuggets because I usually take food to my mouth with me right 'and and the fact that I couldn't do that made me lose me appetite," Robin mumbled nonchalantly as though the last couple of sentences hadn't happened. Then he seemed to nod off again.

"Fine, then if you won't eat the chicken nuggets, I will!" Little John said as he reached over to grab the yellow paper bag.

"Robin," said the doctor, "you can still use your right hand to pick up little stuff like chicken nuggets, just not, like, anything bigger than a stick of butter. Alright?" A moment passed. "Did he fall asleep again?"

"Not for long," Little John said as he clambered his arms over the crests of the seats so he could pick up the soda cup with one hand and force Robin's head to its straw with the other. In his half-awake daze, Robin got the hint and obliged to start sucking.

"Hm. Better eat those chicken nuggets fast, because that cop's still behind me. The 'taking you to the hospital' lie won't make any sense if I bought you guys junk food."

"You're the boss," Little John remarked as he wolfed down the remaining half-dozen nuggets in one mouthful.

Then as the vehicle passed under the Route 23 toll road and approached the six-way intersection where Sherwood Forest Road cut diagonally through the grid system, the doctor decided to be daring and decide if the cop was really following him. "You know what? I got sixteen minutes. I'm gonna take you guys all the way home." he said as he merged into the right turn lane. "And would you look at that? Cop's not even following me into this lane."

"Aw, c'mon!" Little John protested through a stuffed mouth. "You couldn't a' done that five seconds ago so I could enjoy my food!?"

"Nope." The doctor took his spot in the long line to turn right and the cop passed on his left without a glance.

About seven minutes later, they approached the spot where the city gave way to the kingdom of nature, and right beyond the last house and the last side street was the small parking area for that particular fraction of Sherwood Forest Nature Preserve.

"Robin, you awake?" Dr. Fort asked as he flicked on his turn signal.

"For now I am," he said; despite his stoic tone, it was the most alert he had seemed all day. "I keep having waves of wakefulness and fatigue, though, so who knows where I'll be in five minutes."

"Aw, I'll carry him if need be," said Little John. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"And I'll pay you back one day for all those times you have, Johnny, I promise," Robin said as he stared out the window, his face not matching the genuinity in his voice.

"Jesus, I wished I clicked as well with anyone on this planet as well as you two click with each other," the doctor said as he turned into the parking lot.

"What can I say?" said Little John. "Two completely different walks of life, from two completely different places, happened to cross one another's path and agreed to work together, and whaddaya know, we got lucky, and we click. We're like John Stockton and Karl Malone - except we both want to think we're Karl Malone."

"Well, Johnny," said Robin, more 'there' than he was before, "I've no idea who either of those blokes are, so I'll let you go ahead and be Mr. Malone."

Little John didn't say a word in reply, he just smiled a tired smile at him, secretly wishing that could be the case. But at a certain point, the silence got weird, so he turned back to the doctor and added, "So don't feel bad about it, Doc. You haven't done anything wrong, and we ain't done anything right. We just got dealt lucky cards."

"Duly noted. So Robin, one last time," said the doctor, "I'm serious, unless your life is somehow endangered by not using it, don't shoot that bow and arrow for… at least a week, preferably two - no, preferably six or eight, but I honestly don't think you're gonna do that."

"Now now now, good Doctor! I'm not stubborn due to ignorance, I'm stubborn due to diligence!" Robin declared, seeming back to his regular self for a moment. "I'll promise you this: with every decision I make regarding my arm, I will, whenever possible, stop and consciously think about your advice."

"Hey man, you don't have to promise anything to me. This is your health we're talking about here." The doctor seemed like he was completely done with having this conversation. "If you wanna rush your own recovery because you're not resourceful enough to find ways to work around your injury, then that's up to you, man, but at a certain point, there are injuries and disabilities that no amount of money or expertise can solve."

And Robin wasn't completely content with the doctor's tone. "I… have to say, that was a rather sudden shift from compassion to condescension." It was specifically reminding Robin of the woman at the DC DMV who proctored his first attempt at a driver's license road exam, who - after Robin made a bunch of little mistakes throughout the exam and apologized at the end, citing his confusion between British and American traffic customs and bad habits he'd picked up from more experienced motorists on both sides of the ocean - chastised him for apologizing, saying "it's your test."

Dr. Fort pulled into a parking spot, threw the car in park, and turned to face Robin. "Then don't treat my professional advice like it's a fucking joke." He turned off the ignition and unbuckled his belt so he could more easily turn in his seat to face Robin. "I'm gonna be honest with you, Robin, this morning you basically forced my hand into doing something I didn't feel comfortable doing - and quite frankly, I'm still not sure I made the right decision. And now I'm trying to give you medical advice for your own good, and you're acting like everything's normal and acting all James Bond like you always do, going, 'oh, my good sir, if it's convenient for me in my noble mission, I'll follow your orders' - motherfucker, just say yes! And if you're not going to, then lie to me!"

Little John was simply watching the scene unfold. He thought the doctor was making good points, but he was being a dick about them. Quite frankly, he was disappointed in the way both of them were behaving.

"And you." Much to John's surprise, the dog had now turned to face him. "I know, I know, I'm spazzing out and acting like an anal little bitch right now, but-" - and he turned back to Robin - "-goddammit, if you're not going to give me your respect when I'm doing everything I can to earn it legitimately, then I'm gonna call you out and start demanding it, alright?"

"Doctor, I have the utmost respect and gratitude for-"

"Then act like it!" Dr. Fort threw his hands up as he yelped. "Follow my orders and don't be a cheeky little fuck about them. Just do them. There's a time and place for you to act like Joe Fucking Cool, but it's not all the time, always! There are times to be anal little nerds about things and take them seriously, and one of those times is now, alright?"

The three of them were all silent for a minute, and as Geoff and Robin stared one another down, Little John stared only at Dr. Fort, lamenting that they wouldn't have a moment to have a private conversation about how much he was relating to a lot of what the doctor was saying - and yet not necessarily the way he was saying it.

"Well, I apologize for my inappropriate attitude," Robin finally said, the words coming out of his mouth slowly and deliberately.

"Okay, now are you actually sorry, or are you just saying that so you look like the bigger man and I look like a jackass-?"

"Doc," Little John cut in. "Doc, I- I think you should just take his apology at face value. I- You know what? You're right. You're right - and Robin and I've been talking about this recently; he just beams confidence so constantly that… it's just a fact of life that it's going to come across as cocky once in a while. But… I don't think he'll be receptive to the way you're saying it. You know what I mean?"

"Uh… no?"

"I mean, I think if you said what you said with more of the tone he uses, he probably would have been more likely to listen to you. Tell me, Doc, do you like standup comedy?"

"Uh… w-what does that have to do with anything?"

"Real life is a lot like standup comedy; it's all about knowing your audience."

"I… quite like that analogy, Little John," said Robin.

"Thank ya kindly. So hey, Doc, we mentioned earlier that you're trying to be more than a skittish little nerd nobody's gonna take seriously? Well… aside from a few incidents today, I think you're doing a pretty good job at that. I have faith in you that you'll figure it out, but as much as it's gonna frustrate ya, you gotta treat every decision you make like it's a test of if you're going to be the person you want to be." I have faith in you - that line sounded so damn campy, but since he was effectively trying to learn leadership on the fly, that cheesy line seemed as good a place as any to start.

For what it was worth, the doctor seemed touched by the bear's affirmation of faith. "Uh, w- well, thanks, John, that, uh… h-hey, I-I appreciate it! I-I tell you what, I'll do that, and I'll do it for you."

Little John was not expecting that. Holy shit, did that just actually work? Well, okay, the part where he got him to agree to try to better himself worked; the part where his subject succeeded was yet to be determined.

Dr. Fort turned to address John and Robin simultaneously. "Okay, so, before I let you guys go, you guys still got the Tylenol and Advil?"

Neither of them answered.

"...They're… we left them at my house, didn't we?"

"Aw, don't worry, Geoffrey, we'll get more!" John insisted. "They sell them at every gas station in America, don't they?"

"Yeah, but I'm just thinking about whether or not he might eventually need something stronger if those two in tandem don't do the trick." He turned back to his patient. "Robin, how are you feeling right now?"

"Er, quite honestly… I was trying not to complain, but the pain is getting worse the more I think about it. And I am starting to think more about it."

"Goddammit, that's what I was worried about." He checked his watch. "Shit! I'm already late. I can't drive you guys to a 7-Eleven."

"We'll find 'em somewhere," Little John insisted. "If anything, I can put him back in our safehouse and I'll go get some myself."

The doctor just looked worried. After a moment of staring at Robin's arm, he leaned over and pulled open the glove compartment in front of Robin, and pulled out two small pill bottles. He placed them in Robin's hands. "Here. Take my car stash. They'll last you through the next day, at least."

Robin shook the bottles with his good arm. "They sound almost empty."

"They are. You're gonna have to get more soon. And when you do, just for posterity, Motrin and Advil are literally just brand names of the exact same thing - actually, if possible, just go with generic ibuprofen; FDA standards mean they have to legally be exactly the same as the name-brand stuff. And Tylenol is acetaminophen. You guys getting all this?"

"I already forgot what Tylenol's called," said Little John.

"Then just read the Tylenol bottle and look for a long word starting with an A, and look for that to save a few bucks. But whatever you get, just be careful to take them as sparingly as possible, not just because you can OD on them, and not just because they can fuck up your liver, but also because some recent research suggests that non-steroid painkillers actually slow or even prevent bone healing. They actually had to take a few drugs off the market for that a few years back."

"So you're damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Basically."

"I've been through worse pain as a lad," said Robin, "I'll manage."

"And I'm not trying to knock you down, Robin, but as you said, you've never even had a bone fracture before, and I've got to say, growing pains are a lot different from the pain of having a dozen screws drilled into your bones. You don't know how well or how badly you're gonna handle this."

"Alright then, Doctor, tell what I'm to do if I can't handle it?"

The doctor checked his watch again. "Fuck, I- I shoulda woken you guys up earlier. Alright, so-" And then he took a deep breath while his eyes looked nervously out their left corners away from the others. "So then we'd be getting into opiates and narcotics. If we'd been doing this operation legitimately, I probably would have given you a 'scrip for very, very small doses of either oxycodone or paracetamol to go with Advil, with orders to cut the hard stuff and swap it out with Tylenol after two-three weeks tops, because those drugs - we call them the Big Three, the name brands are OxyContin, Percocet and Vicodin - you know how the old saying is that something's as addictive as crack? Well, they should be saying crack's as addictive as this stuff. Me and my colleagues've had several conversations about how with every passing year, we're still amazed the stuff is legal."

"And Doctor, I respect your medical wisdom enough to swear to you that I would consume these responsibly-"

"Yeah, you say this now. But the research's been done. These things relieve pain by making your brain release dopamine - and that's all addiction is. Your brain likes dopamine, so if consuming something releases it, your brain's gonna demand more. And I'm no psychologist or psychiatrist or whatever, but I know enough about those fields to know that… we really aren't as in-control of our brains as we think we are."

"The doctor's right, Rob," Little John added, and Robin was thrown off by how somber the bear suddenly seemed again. "My old man was on Oxy. You don't want to be on Oxy. Not if you can help it."

"You see? He knows," said the doctor. "John, if you don't mind me asking, why'd they put your dad on Oxy?"

"He was already a giant, so he already had chronic back pain, but then he wrenched his back at work. And at first, I thought it was great because my mom would give him a pill and he'd stop beating the shit outta me and my brother for the night, but then after a few years, I realized, wait, when he's sober, he's hitting twice as hard as he used to, and twice as often. That stuff fucks with your mind, Rob."

Robin visibly regretted pushing the issue. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Johnny. But- I-I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm genuinely confused; why did you bring up the possibility of stronger drugs if you think they're not worth the risk?"

"Because I'm stupid," Dr. Fort said flatly. "I shouldn't have. But I was thinking about how it usually goes that we start you on ibuprofen and an opiate and then swap out the opiate with Tylenol to wean you off the hard stuff, so I was wondering if I was violating the Hippocratic Oath by forcing you to skip a step."

"Well my apologies if it seemed as though I were mocking you for it earlier, but I really do greatly appreciate all the thought you clearly put into the well-being and comfort of your patients."

But the St. Bernard was still lost in thought. "I mean… if you guys can get your hands on some, go for it if you need it, but maybe get a razor blade and cut the pills into quarters or something, and for the love of God, watch your back, because all three of them are controlled substances-"

"Wait, wait, wait, stop stop stop stop stop…" Little John interrupted. "...I thought you were offering to help us get them."

"What? Oh. No. God, no. I'm a doctor, not a pharmacist. I can't just throw pills at you and send you on your merry way. You guys are on your own for this one."

John looked at Robin. "Well hey, we have to go refill our night-night pills with Thor, maybe he can whip something up that does the trick without the nasty side effects."

"You keep mentioning this Thor guy; should I know who this is? Is he somebody I should meet?"

"Come to think of it," said Robin, "with your expertise at practicing medicine and his expertise at making it, you two could likely perform some miracles together!"

"Plus it would probably be good for your self-esteem to meet him," John added. "He's kind of like the, like… he's kind of like the skittish nerd version of you, except all the time, and he's not trying to get better."

"Actually, I'd argue whereas Geoffrey here would go off on someone who's making him feel insecure, Thor wouldn't necessarily have the self-esteem to do even that."

"Ooh, good point there. Hell, could Thor even be a doctor since it requires talking to patients? Could he handle that?"

"Sounds like a mess," the doctor quipped. "But this guy would seriously need to be a miracle worker if he could make an opioid-equivalent painkiller that isn't addictive, because like I said, as far as modern medicine knows, the part that makes it addictive is the part that means it's doing its job right at all. But hey, uh… I'm super late for work. But if you need me, you know where to find me, and if you can't find me, you still have the list of friendly doctors I gave you, please please please please for the love of God don't overexert yourself, and, uh… yeah. I think we're good here."

The doctor got out of the car, went around to open Robin's door for him, and then to the back of the car to open the trunk and let Johnny out. They exchanged sentiments of gratitude one last time, and as Robin started his way off toward the forest's walking trail, Little John stayed behind for a moment to catch a word with the doctor.

"Hey, thanks again for taking care of Rob for me," he said.

"Oh, anytime," Dr. Fort said, getting the hint that the bear had more to say.

"Listen, the guy gets on my nerves sometimes, too - like we talked about, there's a fine line between confidence and arrogance. But honestly, the guy's so used to winning all the time that he doesn't really know how to lose. Or- how to handle it when he does lose - you know what I mean."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, I hear ya."

"And in that way, I almost feel bad for him. But hey… maybe if he wins all the time, there's something we can learn from him. I mean, I wouldn't want to be exactly like the guy, but… honestly, I think we could all stand to learn at least a little something from everybody else. You just gotta do more critical thinking for figuring out some people's lessons than others."

"Hm… I like that worldview."

"Johnny!" Robin called from the trailhead. "You coming, old boy?"

"In a sec, Rob!" John turned back to the doctor. "But remember what I said. Every single decision we make, we gotta choose to be who we want to be, not just who we're used to being. It's a pain in the ass, but it's the only way we're ever gonna get into the habit of getting better."

"You make a good argument, John. I appreciate it."

"And I appreciate you, man. But remember: we're both in this together. I'm still trying to figure out who the fuck I am, too, and God knows that little limey bastard makes me feel really, really bad about myself for not being as great as he is, but now I'm trying to tell myself that I'd be better off learning from him than resenting him; I just hope I'm right."

"Well, hey, man, good luck on getting your own head sorted out."

"And same to you. Hey, I gotta say, you're already a lot easier to talk to than you were when we first met you." Little John extended his arm for a handshake, and when the doctor reciprocated he pulled the dog in for a one-arm hug. "You take care of yourself, brother."

"You too, Johnny," the doctor said as he was let go.

And as Little John began walking away, he added, "And we're serious! If you lose your licensing over this, hit us up! We'll take good care of you! And we could use a new member - God knows you're healthy enough!"

In the world that Little John knew, that entire conversation would have been regarded as the pinnacle of sappiness. But irony and sarcasm weren't going to teach either of them anything, so he had to give genuinity a chance. Robin had done much to inspire him to be the best person he could be (with mostly successful results), and as much as John would have liked to return the favor when Robin clearly could have used it right about then, he knew that was going to be a tough sell with that stubborn son of a gun, so the best he could do was try to pay it forward.

And the doctor probably wouldn't have immediately forgotten Little John's lessons had he not immediately had something happen to him to preoccupy his mind with worry. As he was driving back toward the exit of the parking lot, a police cruiser hung a right from the main road and came right toward him, with three more cars in tow; all four of them were sporting fresh new decals that read "NOTTINGHAM COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE". It was the oddest thing; through the windshield of the lead car, he could see what appeared to be a squirrel driving while seated on some sort of scaffolding, whereas in the passenger seat was a grossly overweight gray wolf, looking back at the doctor and glaring at him as wolves always seem to glare at dogs.

"Aw, shit," the doctor murmured to himself as the procession passed. "Run, boys."

-IllI-

"So Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Please explain to me where that gun came from."

"...Found it."

"Where?"

"...It was under the van."

"The van? The van we've been living in?"

"The very same."

"Just… sitting on the ground, under the van?"

"Well, it definitely wasn't taped to the bottom of the chassis."

"Well, I don't know that. It may have been. That's why I asked."

"Hm, alright, fair enough."

"How long have you had it?"

"Since we first found the van."

"When the lads were there?"

"Mmhmm."

"...It couldn't have been-?"

"I refuse to believe that the gun was theirs. They don't seem to be the type."

"...And I don't disagree, but the thought does cross one's mind."

"Don't worry, I get it. But I need you to understand that I wasn't planning on using it unless it was an emergency. And that was an emergency."

"And I appreciate that you wouldn't start waving around a gun willy-nilly and I appreciate further the way you saved my arse yesterday, but dear God, Johnny, I wish you would have told me, because when I heard that gunshot, my first thought was, 'oh, Little John doesn't have a gun, so it must be someone else, and they surely meant to hit me instead of him.'"

"And I'm sorry if I made you piss your pants in fear and confusion, but I was damned sure you would have told me to get the fuck outta here with that thing."

"And I probably would have, to be quite honest, but at the end of the day, I respect your ability to make your own decisions."

"...Well, quite frankly, Rob, I don't always feel like you respect my ability to make my own decisions. But I know, we've already had this conversation. I'm sure you don't want to have it again."

"I know we've had this conversation, Johnny, but I need to stress, surely you don't think that just because I say something with conviction that that means I think that I'm infallible."

"I do think you think you're infallible when you say stuff like that. And I'd wager most people do, too. And you know what? That can be a good thing when the people you're talking to don't have any strong opinion about it, like 'oh, how are we gonna fix this problem?' 'I dunno.' 'I dunno.' 'I dunno.' 'Hey, I'm Robin Fuckin' Hood, and I have a plan!' Then saying things like that works. But if someone's got dissenting opinions - or, hell, if they have the same opinion and they just want some fucking credit for it - yeah, it's gonna sound like you're saying 'my way or the highway.'"

"...Johnny, surely you aren't suggesting I start… acting less confidently so others feel less… I dunno, is 'intimidated' the word?"

"I like how this conversation is having the exact same flow as the one we had in the tree, but different subjects. 'Hey, Rob, I feel worse about myself because you never tell me when you're feeling bad.' 'Johnny, are you saying you want me to be, I dunno, more vulnerable?'"

"But surely that's not what you're suggesting? That I specifically act less confidently?"

"...I don't know honestly. Part of me wants to pick you up and start shaking you and say 'yes, yes, a million times, yes!', but another part of me doesn't want to… doesn't wanna take the side of being anti-confidence. All I know is this, Rob: people are insecure. Maybe you're not-"

"I have my insecurities, Johnny, you know that."

"Well you hide them all too well so it seems like you don't have any. But as I was saying, people are insecure. I know I've said all these things before, but for the sake of my point, let me just repeat: confidence, charisma, charm, courage, uh, coolness, character. All things I hear people say about you - hell, let's add, uh, cerebralness just to make it The Seven C's. Is that a word? Or cleverness, pick whichever one you like better. And come to think of it, replace character with content of character - no no, conviction. Confidence, charisma, charm, courage, coolness, cleverness, conviction, there. And maybe you learned them somewhere, maybe you're born with it, maybe it's Maybelliene, but one way or another, this is a list of qualities people say are in you - and they're qualities I never felt I had, qualities I always wanted, qualities I'm still working really, really hard to try to work on and earn legitimately. And I'm gonna go out on a limb and say most people aren't lucky enough to have all of The Seven C's. So when you ball up all of them and… just exist with all of those thing in your aura, that can be majorly fucking useful for winning over people who are completely content with who they are, or at least people who're content with who they are in a given moment, but you try that on someone who wishes they could be more like you and hates the fact that they can't be? You're just gonna make them focus on how much they don't like themselves. And I'd wager that most people are more like me - at least some of the time. Now, I've seen you, so I know your ways work on people more often than not, but just like how you rubbed The Doctor the wrong way, you can rub me the wrong way sometimes when… Jesus, I don't know where I'm going with this. Maybe I just hate myself too much and I'm the weird one for being so insecure that I feel 'intimidated' by your 'confidence', but even if I am, well, shit, that's our reality, we can't pretend it isn't, so what are we gonna do about it? It's just like I told Geoff - know your audience."

"Well, I'm certainly fully awake now."

"Hell, you'd better be. I'd better not be preaching to deaf ears."

"...I think I feel more like you do, more than you think I do."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I mean I also feel insecure to a fault about who I-"

"I know that's what you meant, motherfucker, I meant that the idea of that doesn't make any sense! You can say all you want that you have your insecurities, too, but your actions don't reflect that! I don't know anyone who would describe you as being anything short of one hundred percent sure of yourself, about damn-near everything... at least everything that matters... You know what? ...I just had a thought. All those people who adore you - specifically the ones who adore you more than me - they admire your greatness because they just assume that you overcame things to become who you are. But they don't really know you. I've lived with you, for seven years, and I barely know what those things you overcame are. I got something about a shitty father figure, and some class-conflict thing, and today I learned that you, Mr. Fucking Alpha-Male Fox Specimen, were so goddamn tall as a kid it constituted a fucking health scare. That's it. That's all I have to go off of. I used to admire how great you were and I was happy to be known as your sidekick because I wanted to be near you so I could learn how to become great, just like you did; now I'm getting angry because you're just being perfect so fucking effortlessly and I can't figure out how you did it. I'm not impressed by your greatness like I used to be because I'm not so sure anymore that you ever did anything to earn it - just like there are rich kids who inherit a bunch of money and never work for it, I'm starting to get pissed because I'm getting the impression that you were just born with all the genes for The Seven C's and I've gotta work my ass off to be a fraction as great as you are - or at least as everyone thinks you are. And as much as our society loves to pretend we admire people who worked hard for what they have, no, fuck nah, we admire people who were born to be great. People who were born to be great and just become greater. And that ain't me… Do you see why I'm frustrated? Or do you think I'm a whiny little bitch like that cocksucker with the chainsaw and everybody else in this town seems to think of me?"

"...I suppose there is a lot I need to tell you. Maybe next time we're stuck in one spot with nasty weather."

"Well, then I'm praying for rain… I got a question."

"Please."

"Do you consciously make a point to treat me the way you want me to treat you?"

"...I've always tried to live by treating others as I'd wish to be treated - barring exceptions like our enemies, of course, but even then I have my reservations about that, but I-I'm digressing - but… I can't say I consciously think through 'am I treating Little John the way I'd want Johnny to treat me?' Because the way you treat me is unique to you - and that's why I like you, Johnny. Because you're different from me. You bring things into my life that I wouldn't otherwise have. And I suppose I just always assumed the opposite is true: I treat you as my friend, but I do it in my own unique way. And I always just hoped that was what you liked about me."

"Alright, alright, fair enough."

"But is that what you like about me?"

"What is?"

"Whatever you would say makes me unique?"

"...Sometimes more than others."

"I see."

"I'm not saying no, Rob, I'm just saying that you bring your flaws to the table as much as your good things."

"I know, I know… I suppose I was just hoping that I'd have grown enough as a person that my flaws wouldn't be so apparent anymore."

"Jesus, Rob, didn't you listen to the doctor? If anything, you've grown too much as a person! Your wittle fox bones are stretched!"

"Heh… fair point, Johnny, fair point."

"...I have a better question. Wait, fuck. Two, actually."

"I welcome them."

"Do you see me as an equal?"

"Absolutely. If anything, it hurts me that you feel that I don't."

"Splendid. Nice to see you're making this about yourself, too. Second: do you regard yourself as the leader?"

"...Leader, of…?"

"Us."

"...Well, shit, you've got me there."

"Is that a yes?"

"I mean, in my defense, Johnny, I'm just sort of used to thinking myself as such after all those years-"

"I'm just not sure how you can reconcile saying you think we're equals and saying you think you're the leader of a gang of two."

"As I said, Johnny, you got me fair and square. Though I would argue that we can still be equals as friends and people and still have our distinct roles as in this operation we're running."

"Welcome to America, where the first rule of workplace culture is that bosses aren't supposed to be friends with their underlings in case they have to cut them loose for underperforming."

"So I see."

"Hey, I've got a radical idea!"

"More radical than Alan's?"

"The Merry Men are over. We're Robinhood'n'littlejohn now. And I'll take one for the team and let my name be second on the branding. But we aren't the same group we used to be, our dynamics aren't the same, we don't operate the same way that we used to… we're not who we were. Time to start reflecting that."

"And what if those lads decide to join us?"

"They won't."

"How are you so sure?"

"They shouldn't. They're fourteen. They should be dropping rocks off highway overpasses or making IEDs out of toilet bowl cleaner and Coke bottles, not hanging out with two guys in their thirties who keep almost getting killed and keep breaking out into long-winded conversations about how our little bromance isn't turning out like we'd hoped."

"...Well, for what it's worth, Johnny, I have had sort of insecure feelings - in this last week especially - that I'm not good at being a good friend."

"...I… I acknowledge that you've said this. And I- different parts of me want to say two different things. One part of me wants to say, 'hey, I'm sorry if I made you feel that way about yourself, I appreciate all the times you've been there for me, I know you're doing your best'... and the other part of me wants to say, 'good, you should feel bad, either you're not trying your best or your best won't do, I shouldn't have to tolerate this, just be better.' Okay? And instead of committing to one or the other, I'm just gonna tell you that they're both in my head and I want to say both of them, and that'll be that."

"...I understand completely."

"...You know, honestly, we can probably both do things to be better as people… God help me if I can figure out what those things are, though…"

"Hear, hear."

"Heh, never thought I'd live to see the day when you're hear-hearing me."

"There's a first time for everything, Johnny."

"...So how's the arm?"

"Absolutely knackered."

"In English?"

"Dreadfully knackered, old chap! Cor blimey, cheerio!"

"In American English?"

"Now ya's listen here, John-Boy, my arm ain't hurt this dag-nasty since'n the day I pulled out a corn-cob from my tractor's lady-parts. Yee-haw! Roll Damn Tide!"

"I've taught you well. Nice to see you back in good spirits."

"But in all seriousness, I'm going to take some more medicine as soon as we get to the van."

"...Rob, didn't you just take some when we started walking?"

"Yes, and it's worrying me that they're not having any effect."

"Well, go easy on them. How many you got left?"

"At last count, two of one and three of the other."

"Fine, one more of each at the van, just to put you to sleep, then one more of each when we wake up. If we go to bed now, we can probably wake up in time to get to Thor's place before he jags off and goes to bed around sunrise."

"It will be a miracle if we can sleep in that van in the sweltering heat."

"Hey, if anything, the heatstroke might knock us both out quick."

"Yes, but then I'll be concerned about us never waking up."

"Well… as much as I would like to… I don't think it's safe to sleep here."

They stepped out into the clearing and assessed the further damage. There were some spots of grass that were stained a dark color, but to an unaware observer it may simply have seemed to be dirt rather than blood. But what they were really worried about was the deep, dark gash sliced right into the base of the Major Oak; although the tree was immense and its trunk was wide, the cut still went a solid quarter of the way through.

For a moment, they simply stared at it. Little John was the first to speak.

"Trees… don't survive that, do they?"

"I… don't believe they do. I-I… I think it won't be immediate. But it would only be a matter of time."

"We… we can't…"

"...stay here… anymore."

They kept on staring, trying to come to terms with what they were looking at. The scene was doubly upsetting; it was like they had both watched the death of a beloved friend and witnessed the end of an era they thought would never end. Even if the tree could survive so many of its arteries being severed, the authorities surely knew for a fact by now that this was the exact spot that they called home.

Without saying a word to one another, they both simultaneously stepped back from the tree and looked around the rest of the clearing. They saw the branches they hung clothes on, the pits and stands they cooked on, the stumps they sat and made merry on, the homemade benches they played music on, and the grass they laid on as they stared at the sky, watching the clouds go by, talking to one another about how even if they died that night, they would always have had enjoyed the moments like these, and wasn't it just so awesome to be alive? Wasn't life itself just amazing? Wasn't it great that they had been so fortunate to find friends such as each other and spend the little moments like these appreciating what nobody else takes the time to appreciate? Wasn't it incredible just to be?

They looked around the clearing. Even though they had known every nook and cranny of this forest like the back of their hand for years, they still wanted to make a point to take in every single detail of this clearing they could, just in case there was some small thing they had always missed, for they did not know how soon it would be before all of this was nothing more than a pleasant memory.

"Oh," said Little John, looking at a tree about twenty feet outside of the clearing. "Before I forget." He walked over to the tree and reached into a large knot hole, barely larger than his hand. He extracted a very familiar pistol and held it up for Robin to see. "Don't worry, for emergency use only." He started to stick the thing in the back of his pants, but then stopped and decided to open the barrel. "Four shots left. Hopefully we'll never need to use a single one of them." He closed the chamber and holstered the gun. "Do you even know how to shoot one of these?"

Robin shrugged coyly. "Hopefully, I'll never have to!"

"I mean, if you can shoot a bow and arrow, you probably can't be that bad," John said as he walked over. "I mean, the aiming is different, but you still know the fundamentals of aiming in general, so you're halfway there."

"Good to know."

"But yeah, I hid that thing away from camp just in case the cops rolled through here while we were out. I also put Will's sword and the chainsaw up on the shelf."

"Good thinking, Johnny."

"Hm, come to think of it, I should probably check to make sure they haven't found the shelf yet," John said as he made his way over to the tree and started climbing. "So… how long after a tree dies is it dangerous to climb?" he asked as he ascended.

"Not sure myself, honestly. Strange as it sounds, you're probably more of an outdoorsman than I am."

"Hm. Well I'd bet by now, we're more outdoorsmen than anybody we know!"

"I'd agree… You know, it's ironic, the original Major Oak back in England is also in quite the state of disrepair."

"Original Major Oak? There's another one?"

"There is! The original Major Oak in the original Sherwood Forest outside the original Nottingham in the original England."

"Is that what you named this after!?"

"That it is. Went to see the original Major Oak as a lad. After a few thousand years, it's being held up by stilts, and it's roped off. I'm fairly certain it's a criminal penalty to touch it."

"Wait… is that the tree from the Adam Bell story?" Little John was almost at the top.

"No, that's the Grand Oak in Inglewood Forest near Carlisle. The Major Oak and Sherwood Forest are mostly known for pagan and druidic rituals a long time ago; entire forest is said to be haunted, the tree especially. But back when Adam Bell would have been running around, Sherwood Forest was much larger in scope and scale before we decided to start cutting into it!"

"Ooh, nifty. I was gonna say, it'd be pretty weird if our lives were exactly like Adam Bell's right down to the little-shit details… Uh, yup! They're still here, Rob! Safe and sound!"

"Splendid! Come on down, Johnny!"

Little John started making his way down the tree, but reached the ground a little more quickly than he was hoping.

"Oh, shit-"

"Johnny!"

THUMP. "Ow…"

"Johnny, are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, just a bruise, probably."

"Thank goodness. Can't have the both of us breaking bones, and heaven knows I can't carry you back to-"

"Over here! I heard a loud noise from over here!"

"That-a-way!"

"Aw, hell," Little John grumbled as he jumped to his feet.

"C'mon, Johnny, let's go!" Robin ordered in a harsh whisper as he took off running due northwest.

"All the way to the junkyard!? We'll never make it!"

"Well, I can't climb a tree right now!"

"I hear them screaming at each other!"

"Wait!" Little John panted as he tried to catch up; like many of his species, he was a deceptively good runner for his size, but he never did learn the trick to running and speaking at the same time.

"There's no time to wait!"

PPPPPbbbbb!

"Ronnie, don't shoot your gun this far out, you fucking idiot! You might hit another civilian!" This voice had a familiar Southern twang to it.

"There's really no time to wait!" Robin repeated.

"But I have… an idea!"

"No time for talking!"

"But Rob! ...We'll never… make it!"

"Not with that attitude, you won't!"

It actually worked quite nicely: the exact moment that John had caught up to Robin was the exact moment he decided he was done being bossed around.

"Goddammit, Robin!" John grunted as he picked Robin up under the armpits and hugged him against his chest, and took a hard right back north.

"Johnny, what are you-!?"

"Shut the fuck up for once, will ya!?"

"I'm radioing for backup! They'll surround the perimeter!" said the same familiar voice. "They ain't escapin' again!"

And Robin, between the broken arm, lack of weaponry, and now being carried by a grizzly bear against his will, was feeling especially powerless. So he closed his eyes to try to get away from his present situation, and let Little John take him wherever he was going to take him.

All of it happened in what was probably less than a minute. At first, all Robin could hear was the sound of Johnny's rushed footsteps, his labored breathing, and his heart thumping against his own back. Then he started hearing the voices coming closer. Then he could faintly hear the beeps of walkie-talkies and the crackly, staticky sounds of voices on the far end of the frequency. But then he heard the familiar and strangely comforting sound of rushing water.

He opened his eyes just as Little John had left the treeline and rushed out into the open toward the shoreline. Robin looked as far left and right as he could; he didn't see any police around, at least not yet.

Little John slowed down as he carefully maneuvered along the narrow pathway between the water and the wall of rocks. With his size, they both got in the way of the falling water as they finally made it to the entrance of the cave, but as they entered the half-light of the cavern, a little moisture wasn't going to bother them.

As John turned Robin around and leaned down to put him on his feet, he forgot about the curvature of the cave's ceiling. "God, da-!" he yelped as he bumped his head, dropping Robin on his behind as he did.

"Argh!" Robin grunted as he landed. "Are you alright, Johnny?"

Little John collapsed on his own posterior and sat up against the wall of the cavern, catching his breath. "Yeah… I got a hard head… You alright?"

"Yes, I… should be good."

"We'll… we should be safe here. And… you can probably sleep here… without suffocating..."

"I, er… it really was a brilliant idea, Little John."

"There! Now… will you fucking listen to me!?"

"I-I'm sorry Johnny, I'm not feeling myself, so when I heard them, I panicked, and you know I don't usually panic like that, and I-" Robin realized he was stammering and calmed down for a second. "-If I hadn't been so panicked, I probably would have been able to think about being more… fair to you, I suppose is the word."

"Naw, naw… I get it…" Little John had mostly caught his breath by now, but now he was pausing in the middle of his sentences to find his words. "You had a legit reason to not be thinking straight. You're off the hook… Oh, and by the way…" He reached for the back of his pants. "...if they do find us… we're not completely defenseless," he said as he held up the pistol, then put it on the ground between them. "Remember, with these you don't have to accomodate for the weight of the ammo like you do with arrows. Shoot straight and Bob's your uncle."

"I'll remember that, Johnny, but with my good hand busted up, I'll leave that item to you."

"Man, I've seen you shoot an arrow left-handed - hell, you taught me how to shoot an arrow left-handed, and it turned out I was better at it that way! How're you gonna tell me Mr. SuperFox can't do with his left anything he can do with his right?"

"I can use bows and swords ambidextrously because I was taught how to do those two specific things ambidextrously," he said rather modestly. "I am a mere mortal, Johnny."

"Rob, you should probably lay down and I'll keep watch. How's your arm feeling now?"

"I'll be honest, Johnny, all that blood flow is really putting pressure on my wounds."

"Alright, screw it, take some more of the-"

"You guys still got eyes on them!?"

"Naw, but I found some pill bottles on the ground!"

Robin looked down at the pockets of the paper scrub pants they had put on him at the hospital to replace the ones that were soiled; sure enough, the pill bottles were no longer there. He looked up at Little John, who just looked somber.

The constant sound of the rushing water acted as a sort of white noise, which was likely the only thing that helped Robin eventually fall asleep. When Little John went to lay down about an hour after he last heard any signs of the police, he also tried to focus on the persistent hiss of the waterfall to take his mind off the sounds of the last person on Earth who still had his back whimpering in pain every few minutes until the sun had almost gone down, and to try his best not to let those whimpers remind him of the dream he'd had last night. They couldn't wait until they woke.

*A.N.* So this was another chapter that got out of hand, so it gets cut in two at a logical stopping point, but this and Run with the Hunted, Pt. 2 ought to be regarded as one linear chapter (though I'm not necessarily sure it's coming next). Keep that in mind as themes from Pt. 1 carry over; hopefully the chapter title will make more sense that way. And if any of you heard me allude to a supporting O.C. coming in for this chapter… I wasn't even thinking about fleshing out Dr. Fort until it just sort of happened; you know how writing often goes in new ways you'd never expect. So yeah, it wasn't him, but he'll probably come back someday as well.

By the way, I just need to point this out. I was trying to think of a route number for the highway we first saw in Chapter 2, and I was brainstorming numbers, and I think "oh, I like the number 23, and I haven't used that as a significant number yet, let's see if there's a Delaware State Route 23 in real life." Turns out there is – and it takes roughly the same route as the one in this universe would. And then I remember that this is the 23rd chapter. The 23 enigma is real. You have been warned. Share this with your friends who're bored during the quarantine and stay safe out there. -Doby