Chapter 2

Don really had been cold. The weather had turned, and he had been cold all afternoon. He had headed for Charlie's after work hoping for a hot meal and a warm house. When he had only gotten one of those things, he had huddled miserably on the couch, trying to watch a game with his father, and begun a near-constant harassment of Charlie, who was bent over a stack of papers at the dining room table. Alan had given Don free reign to say what he wanted, which told Don that Charlie's inattention to household details was probably getting to his father, as well. When Don had whined, during a commercial, "Geez, Chuck, if you're not going to get the furnace fixed, at least go get me a sweatshirt or something!", his brother had grunted, pushed back from the table and thrown a red pen into the middle of the papers.

Don and Alan had exchanged grins when Charlie had stormed out to the garage and come back with a tool box. They had heard the panel of the furnace come off in the alcove under the stairs, and Alan raised his hand to his mouth as if to still his own amusement when bitten-off curses and assorted bangs drifted toward them. Don didn't want to laugh out loud, so he looked away from his father, toward the source of his entertainment – just in time for a small explosion to knock him off the couch, more in terror that actual physical impact. As he was scrambling to regain his own balance, he saw Charlie fly backwards out of the alcove, feet not even touching the floor, and slam into the wall. Before Don could react, Charlie was sliding down it to slump, unconscious, at its base. Don urged his feet to move, just as a second, smaller explosion sent a gust of air out of the alcove and seemed to knock Charlie over so that he wasn't even sitting against the wall anymore, but lying in front of it.

Remembering the sight now, sitting in the trauma waiting area next to his father, Don shivered again. Their response had been almost choreographed. Alan had bolted for the laundry room off the kitchen, headed for the control panel of circuit breakers. Don had gone to Charlie, felt for and blessedly found a steady pulse, and had watched his unconscious brother breathe while he frantically pulled his cell off his belt and dialed 9-1-1. Alan was back beside him by the time Charlie had started thrashing around, and it took both of them to hold him down so he wouldn't do himself further damage.

"Still cold, son?" Don pulled his thoughts back to the present. He wasn't sure how long his father had been talking to him.

He shook his head. "I'm okay. What's taking so long?"

Alan started to shake his head, then stiffened. "Here," he said simply, and Don jerked his head up to see a set of scrubs coming toward them.

He and Alan both stood, nervous, and the scrubs focused into the calm face of a middle-aged man who extended a hand toward Alan.

"Dr. Resner, Trauma," he said, shaking Alan's hand briefly and then moving on to Don. "I understand you're here with Charles Eppes?"

Don shook his hand firmly, so that the doctor knew he could take him, then dropped his hand to clutch it into a fist at his side. "Charlie," he said. "Charlie Eppes. Is he all right? He was conscious before the ambulance arrived."

The doctor nodded and smiled. "Yes, I heard. That's good, that he wasn't out very long. He's still conscious, and a little more alert than he was sounding when he first got here."

Alan expelled a breath he had been holding, and the doctor looked at him. "He's very, very, lucky, from what I've heard. He easily could have been electrocuted. As it is, he's suffering only a concussion, a small, first-degree burn on his right hand and several bruises, which I'm sure he'll spend the next several days finding."

Don was reluctant to believe. "You're sure? He had…tests, and stuff?" He felt like an idiot.

The doctor looked at him again, and smiled. "Yes. A CT scan, which was clear. His verbal responses were evaluated by our neurological intern for appropriateness, as well. His major complaints right now are a headache and dizziness; although I suspect he will be sore in the morning."

"Will you release him?", Alan asked.

The doctor seemed to hesitate. "Any loss of consciousness is considered a Grade 3 concussion, and we like to do overnight observations with those. How long would you estimate he was out, again?"

Don thought. Dad had gotten to the circuit breaker and back, and then Charlie had thrashed for a while still unconscious…he had come to asking one word questions just before the ambulance arrived. "Less than five minutes?" he guessed, looking at his father, who shrugged, then nodded.

The doctor pursed his lips, seemed to think for a moment. "Tell you what," he finally said. "Let's keep him here in the ER for about three more hours before we start the paperwork. You can sit with him, if you'd like. You'll see the kind of neuro checks our nurses make — checking his pupils, asking him questions, checking his temperature. Once you get him home, you can continue to do that for the next 20 hours or so. Expect some nausea to set in soon — but anything extreme, or a spike in his temp, and you need to bring him back here right away. Otherwise, he should follow-up with his own physician in a few days." He turned slightly to head back down the corridor. "You can come with me now, if you'd like."

Alan and Don did not have to be asked twice.