Sparky stared mournfully out the window as Sergeant Mahoney drove back to the police station. He couldn't help but feel bad for the woman that they had left behind but at least he knew the truth. It hadn't been Speed he saw. Speed hadn't betrayed him and he quite possibly had not betrayed Trixie.

'I hope Ms Cronkhite is going to be okay,' he thought sadly. 'That's got to be a terrible thing, losing your fiancé in a car wreck. I wonder who that other guy is, though.'

"Sergeant Mahoney?"

"Yeah?" Until now, the everyone in the car had been silent, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Did they have a friend who has a moustache and a goatee and likes to wear weird clothing?"

"Define weird, kid," Mahoney stated. "This is Old City we're talking about. There are all sorts of people wearing 'weird' clothing."

"Well, when I saw them a year ago, this guy that they were talking to was wearing this really weird shirt, like something you'd find at one of those medieval festivals."

"You mean like a poet's shirt?"

"Yeah," Sparky nodded.

"Then the man you just described would be Robert Johnson, a very good friend of theirs. Guy kinda reminds me of Will Riker from Star Trek, The Next Generation." Mahoney chuckled at his own little joke.

"Where's he at?" Sparky inquired, feeling a little more excited now. He really wanted to meet this guy and find out what he could about Ryan O'Connell. If anyone would know and not have a crying fit when talking, it would be this Robert Johnson.

"He's at St. Mary's, recuperating."

"Why's he there?" Racer X asked. He, too, was rather curious.

"Would you believe the same car crash that killed Ryan O'Connell?"

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"All right, here we go. Just one more liquid."

Jack, Jr. sighed. He thought there were a million other things he'd like to be doing . . . if he could only remember what he liked to do. His doctor, Dr. Richmond, held a straw to his lips and he reluctantly took a drink. The water flowed down his throat easily and he was tempted to drink the entire thing. Dr. Richmond, however, took the drink away before he could take in too much then watched him. After a few moments, when he didn't cough or choke on the liquid, he nodded.

"Very good," he stated. "Glad to see this."

"Why didn't you do this before?"

"You could barely stay awake yesterday. Remember, you did just wake up from a coma," the doctor pointed out, scribbling something on a clipboard.

"If I've been asleep for an entire year, why do I feel so sleepy then?"

Dr. Richmond stood up and shrugged.

"Could be a number of reasons, really. You haven't moved around much during that time so any little exertion could wear you out. Not eating, not getting enough fluids . . . all of those can contribute to how . . .lively you feel."

"Oh . . ." He hated how disappointed he sounded.

"Don't worry," Dr. Richmond smiled. "You'll be staying awake longer before you know it, especially when you start eating."

He made a face, causing the good doctor to laugh. The doctor had still concluded he needed the pureed and mechanical soft diet.

"I'll be sure to add soups to the list. Any luck in remembering anything?"

He sighed.

"No . . . I don't get it. Why don't I remember anything?"

"Hey, don't push yourself too hard, kid," Dr. Richmond told him. "You just woke up. You can't expect everything to happen in a day. It's going to take a lot of hard work to get you back to where you were before."

"I know . . . Dr. Richmond?"

"Yeah?"

"Why can't I move my neck or my head? I can feel something holding me in place but I don't know what it is."

"No one's told you?"

"No . . . I've been meaning to ask but I keep forgetting."

"Understandable . . ." Dr. Richmond paused. "You're wearing a back brace. It goes from the base of your skull all the way down to your waist."

"A back brace?"

He nodded. "Yes. A back brace. It keeps you from moving around too much and it's the only thing we haven't removed yet. Your spine hasn't fully healed yet."

"From the . . . incident?"

"Yes. From the incident. You were pretty bad when you came in. For a while, I wasn't even sure you'd make it. I've never seen anyone take a beating like that and still live."

"What happened to my back?" He wanted to push himself up. Dr. Richmond had his attention.

"Several of your vertebrae were damaged in the beating. The punks probably used a baseball bat or a crow bar to hit you with, among other things. You came in with a fractured skull, a broken nose and jaw, cracked ribs, and broken bones all over. Like I said, I wasn't even sure you'd make it."

He sighed rather raggedly. From the sounds of it, he shouldn't have even lived. Yet, here he was. Very much alive.

"Will I be able to do everything I did before?"

"With a lot of luck and hard work, yes," Dr. Richmond nodded. "But it is all up to you, my friend. Just don't be racing all around the countryside or joining any demolition derbies. I'm not entirely sure your body will be able to handle that . . . and I have another patient to see so I'll get out of your hair. Just get some more rest and one of the girls will be in shortly to help you."

"Okay." He would have nodded but the brace around his neck held him firmly in place. Dr. Richmond, leaving him alone with his own musings.

As he lay there, his eyes slowly drifted shut. Images began to dance behind his eyelids. Confetti and streamers floating around him . . . he held a trophy . . . There was a flash of white . . .

His eyes flew open and he started labouring for breath. He knew those images. He had lived them. He just knew it.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," someone joked. "You okay?"

"I . . . yeah . . . I'm okay, Robert. I'm okay."

"What happened? You were sound asleep then you just woke up."

By now Robert had hobbled over to his bed and sat next to him, his brown eyes glowing with concern. He took a deep breath.

"I must have been dreaming . . ."

"About what?" Robert inquired, curious.

"I don't know . . . all I could remember was confetti and streamers everywhere . . . and a trophy of some kind . . ."

"Sounds like you're starting to remember."

"Yeah . . . sounds like it."

He sighed to himself and Robert hopped back to his bed. For a while, they remained in silence, the rustling of a magazine coming from Robert's side of the room.

"Robert?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you here?"

"Because of some drunken asshole." Robert's tone held a bitter quality.

"Oh . . . I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You weren't the drunken asshole who hit my best friend's truck."

"Was it only you in that truck?"

"Afraid not, kiddo. Afraid not."

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Mrs. Racer looked at the picture she held in her hand. It was of her son, Speed, when he was around five years old and tormenting his older brother, Rex. She had brought it along to help her to remember the fun times they had all shared, before things had changed. Looking at it caused a lump to form in her throat and she sighed raggedly.

"It's okay, dear. We'll find him," Pops assured her as they drove to the hospital. He reached over and grasped her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. In the back sat Inspector Detector, Racer X, and Sparky.

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

"What have you got there, Mrs. Racer?"

"Just an old picture, Racer X. Just an old picture."

"May I see?"

She handed the picture back to him without a word. Her nightmare had endured long enough. She just wanted it to end.

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Rex fought back a sigh and a choke as he looked at the picture. He hadn't been aware that a camera had been on them at that particular moment. But he remembered it and remembered it clearly.

Speed had been five years old and had just found a mud puddle. Like all five year olds, he had decided to play in it, wrecking the new suit his parents had just bought him. Pops had been fit to be tied when he saw his son covered head to toe in mud but ended laughing as he chased his older brother around, getting mud on him whenever he could. Rex smiled.

"It's a very lovely picture, Mrs. Racer," he said, handing it back.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Pops pulled into the St. Mary's parking lot at that moment and parked next to a silverish-grey pickup truck. Rex nearly shouted out when he saw who had climbed out. It was none other than Torie Cronkhite!

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Torie grabbed a rubber band from the floor of her truck and immediately began to twist her hair around until a makeshift bun appeared. The rubber band barely held it in place but it was good enough for her. She had no one to impress, after all.

'Not that Ryan would have cared anyway,' she thought morosely as she grabbed her Tupperware containers. 'He thought it was hilarious when I had cut it short and dyed it black.'

Torie locked and closed the door, heading for the main entrance. She didn't even notice who had parked next to her until someone called out, "Ms Cronkhite!"

Looking behind her, she saw the same people that had been to her apartment earlier. 'Funny how they know my name but I don't know theirs.' They hurried towards her.

"Can I help you?" she inquired quietly. She really did not want to be bothered.

"We thought we'd walk in with you," the man in the mask stated. "We came to see your friend, Robert Johnson."

"Why?"

"We're hoping he can tell us about our son," the woman stated. Her eyes were red and puffy.

'She looks like how I feel.'

"I see . . . why do you think Robert would know?"

"Because I saw your fiancé talking to him last year," some guy in a yellow shirt stated. "I thought your fiancé was my best friend, Speed Racer."

"Ah ha . . . and you are?"

"Sparky Jones," he extended his hand. "And these are Speed's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Racer. The man in the mask is a colleague of Speed's, Racer X, and this is Inspector Detector."

"Hello," she nodded. "Why did you think that Ryan was your friend?"

"Because they looked very much alike," Sparky replied matter-of-factly. "Of course, I really only had a passing glance so I wasn't entirely sure. The guy showing me around said it was."

"Really?" She blinked a little. "Who was this guy?"

"I don't think you'd know him," Sparky began.

"Maybe. Maybe not," she shrugged. "You never know."

"True," he conceded. "Well, his name is Carl Prescott . . ."

"Carl Prescott? As in the son of Taylor Prescott the Second, Esquire?"

"Yeah! How did you . . .?"

"Let me tell you a little story about the Prescott boys," she said, walking into the hospital. They immediately fell into step with her and followed her in.