Chapter 8: Snap

The Leeds decided to formally adopt Ned. Peter was genuinely happy for him, but every time he thought about it he tasted jealousy at the back of his throat. Not only that, but they lived in Arizona and would be moving back there as soon as they obtained legal custody. Peter was losing Ned as a brother and, possibly, as a friend. Ned swore that he'd do everything he could to keep in touch from so far away, but Peter still feared that he'd make so many new friends out there that he'd forget all about his former foster brother.

"Go play outside. It might be one of the last days this year when it's warm enough to do so," Mrs. Jones said. Ned and Michelle enthusiastically agreed, but Peter wasn't sure. It might not seem cold to them, but he was more sensitive to low temperatures than he used to be and while it was warm for November, it was still November. Not wanting to miss out, he threw on a jacket and followed his siblings out the front door.

Michelle, who snuck a paperback outside in her jacket, headed right up the tree in the front yard and tucked herself into a nook in the branches. Once she opened the book, Peter knew there was no chance of convincing her to play with them. Ned grabbed the ball they'd been playing with the other day and tossed it to Peter.

"What did you think of our science test yesterday?" Ned asked.

Peter shrugged and tossed the ball back. "It was pretty easy, I guess."

"Of course it would be for you; you're insanely smart."

"No I'm not," Peter insisted. Sure, he liked science and he was pretty good at it, but Ned wasn't far behind and he was way better than Peter at math. And Michelle could read circles around the both of them while also knowing seemingly everything about everything. She even watched the news every night—what thirteen-year-old did that?

"Yes, you are," Ned said. "Michelle, is Peter a literal genius?"

"Sure," she said without looking up.

"See, Peter? Michelle agrees with me."

"Fine. Whatever." Arguing with Ned was no use. He tossed the ball haphazardly and it lodged itself in the tree an arm's length above Michelle's head.

"Aw man," Ned sighed. "Michelle, do you think you could get that down for us?" She passive-aggressively turned the page and ignored them.

"I'll get it," Peter offered. He'd seen Michelle climb this tree so many times that he'd memorized her route up. He grabbed on to the lowest branch and walked up the trunk to get himself on top of the branch. That was the hardest part of the climb; the rest of the branches on the way up sat much closer together. However, the effort just to get here left Peter's arms exhausted. He leaned against the trunk and tried to rub some life back into them.

"You alright?" Ned asked from a few feet below.

"Yep," Peter assured. He grabbed for the next branch, but as soon as he trusted any weight to his arms they gave out on him. Funnily enough, he noticed Michelle's book hit the ground beside him before he recognized that he'd just plummeted from the tree. Then the pain struck.

"Peter!" Ned cried, racing to his side. Peter didn't speak, didn't cry, didn't so much as move. Ned did all three. "Are you okay?" he asked frantically. Peter took one look at his left arm and shook his head no. Arms weren't supposed to bend like that. Michelle's Converse entered his field of vision as she gracefully hopped down.

"Oh my God," she stated. "We need to tell Mom. Right now." Michelle reached down and helped Peter to his feet. The slight movement sent jolts of pain from his fingertips to his elbow, and he cradled the offending appendage to his chest in a futile attempt to steady it. Every step hurt, but he made it into the house without shedding a tear. He suspected he was in shock. This felt exactly like the aftermath of the grocery store shooting.

"What's the matter?" Mrs. Jones asked upon seeing the terrified expressions on the kids' faces.

"Peter fell out of the tree," Michelle explained with remarkable composure.

"Oh no. Let me see." She sat Peter down at the kitchen table and looked over the already-swollen limb. "Michelle, go grab an ice pack from the freezer and a towel. Ned, get a pillow from the closet. We're going to the ER."

Peter sat frozen at the table while the others bustled about. He stared in morbid fascination at his arm, afraid to so much as wiggle his fingers. In the blink of an eye, he was sandwiched between Ned and Michelle in the backseat of Mrs. Jones' car. His arm lay on a pillow in his lap, the ice just taking the edge off the pain. In the ER, they temporarily splinted it and gave him painkillers while he waited for x-rays. Mrs. Jones called Mr. Jones to tell him what happened, and he joined them within half an hour. When they asked him how it happened, Peter merely shook his head and deferred to Ned and Michelle. He'd been too shocked to remember it properly, and he wasn't even certain he hadn't passed out right before he fell.

They had him move his arm into different positions for the x-rays, which hurt, but Peter silently obeyed. There was no doubt in his mind it was broken, but exactly where and how badly remained to be seen. The person looking at his scans whispered to the technician beside her, "I think we need to report this to Child Protective Services." Peter knew he wasn't supposed to hear that. Why on Earth did they think they needed to report this? Kids fell out of trees all the time. Nobody had done anything wrong.

Back in the exam room, they asked again how it happened. Mrs. Jones began to answer, but the nurse interrupted her. "I'd like to hear the story from Peter." She looked at him expectantly. In fact, every gaze in the room fell to Peter and he froze up under the scrutiny. The way Ned and Mrs. Jones explained it was true, why did they need Peter to tell it again? He opened his mouth, but his vocal cords refused to cooperate. It was as if the weight of the situation had constricted his throat to the point where he couldn't physically produce words.

"Peter? It's alright, you can tell me," the nurse encouraged. Peter shook his head forlornly. "How about I have everyone step out for a moment so it's just the two of us?" At that suggestion, Peter shook his head so frantically that it jostled his broken arm. He didn't want to be alone with this stranger. His foster family's presence might be the only thing keeping him from completely freaking out in this place that terrified him so much.

"Peter, you can tell her," Mrs. Jones said.

"I'd rather you not intervene at this time, Mrs. Jones," the nurse said.

"Oh, sorry."

The nurse glanced between Peter, Mrs. Jones, and the paperwork. "You and your husband are his foster parents, correct?"

"Yes."

"How long has he been under your legal guardianship?"

"Just under a year."

"Okay. Does he have a history of mutism?"

"Not that I know of," Mrs. Jones said. "He was quiet the first few days with us, but after that he talked normally. I don't know what's gotten into him. I think he's just afraid and hurting."

Peter wholly agreed with her assessment, but his inability to find his voice amplified that fear. He didn't know what was wrong with himself, and he didn't know why everyone who treated him seemed suspicious of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and it all added up to a pretty terrifying situation.

It only grew more terrifying when they sent his entire foster family away to talk with some official-looking people, leaving Peter completely alone with the nurse and another new person.

"Peter, you can talk to us, it's alright," the nurse assured. "You're not going to get in trouble for anything you say." That only confused Peter more. Why would he get in trouble for talking? He just wanted them to fix his arm so he could go home. Evidently, they had other plans. When Peter still didn't talk, she rephrased her question. "Is the story Mrs. Jones told true? Did you fall out of a tree?" Peter nodded.

"Okay." Whether she believed him or not, Peter couldn't tell, but she continued to explain that they were going to fully examine him just to make sure of a few things. They went through the routine Peter recognized from yearly check-ups at the doctor, but then they took blood, which he was not happy about. Even worse, it took her three tries to get a needle into his vein. After that, every time she tried to meet his gaze, Peter glared daggers. He didn't like people who repeatedly stabbed him with needles and took away his family. They eventually left him alone and Peter's thoughts spiraled. Where did they take Mr. and Mrs. Jones? Why hadn't they let them come back to see him? They weren't his real parents, but they were his legal guardians and the closest thing to family he had. Peter just wanted somebody to explain what the hell was going on.

The nurse did come back, but she didn't bring any of Peter's family back with her. She only brought more questions, questions that shook Peter to the core. "Peter," she began, so sweet and kind it was almost patronizing. "Your brother Ned told us that you haven't been eating. Is that true?"

Peter glared furiously. He'd made Ned promise not to tell anybody, yet he'd clearly just blabbed to these people. Now this nurse sat here sticking her nose in Peter's business.

"Is that true?" she repeated. Peter refused to comment or even shake his head. He'd been so careful, so precise in his behavior around food, for the sole purpose of disguising his brokenness for fear the Jones would send him away. Now they knew, and all his efforts were rendered pointless. They found him out, and the Jones didn't want him anymore. That must be why they hadn't come back for him.

When he continued to not respond, she answered for him. "Based on your weight and some imbalances we found in your blood, it looks like you're not getting proper nutrition. We're going to keep you here until we can figure out what's going on, okay?"

No. Not okay. The only thing that could possibly make this worse was staying here in this place any longer than absolutely necessary. This wasn't the same hospital, but everything here reminded him of his last days with May. She stayed, and she died. Peter did not want to stay.

"Once the orthopedist casts your arm, we're going to show you to your room, okay?"

Peter shook his head vehemently. Evidently, what he wanted didn't matter in this situation. Then again, did what he wanted ever matter?

He did get to choose the color of his cast at least. They showed him his options and he pointed to red. Because of where the break was, they immobilized him from wrist to elbow and outfitted him with a sling to keep it elevated. Possibly the only upside in this situation was that his dominant hand remained free. To complete the ensemble, his free wrist was adorned with a patient ID bracelet with his name, birthday, and other information. Even as they transferred him to his new room, he didn't get to see the Jones. Peter wanted to ask where they were, but he couldn't muster the courage to speak up. With no available information to tell him otherwise, he concluded that they wanted nothing to do with him now that they knew his secret. They must have hightailed it out of here with their two normal children at the first opportunity.

The first visitors to his new room were a Dr. van Dyne and a Dr. Wilson. They both smiled a lot and seemed nice, but he read their badges to see who they were. An eating disorder specialist and a psychiatrist. Peter didn't understand why any of this was necessary. His mind was in perfect working order, not that anybody here paid enough attention to him to realize that. If he was acting pathologically, it was only because he was trapped in a place that looked just like the one where his aunt—his last living relative—died a horrible death. He had every right to be a little jittery.

"Peter, do you know why you're here?" Dr. Wilson asked. In answer, Peter lifted his casted arm slightly. "Well, yes, but do you know why we're keeping you here? Why Dr. van Dyne and I were brought in to help?"

He knew. Peter knew that they thought something was wrong in his head and that's why they sent a psychiatrist, but he didn't agree with their assessment. If he could just go home to the Jones, somewhere familiar and safe, he'd be fine. But, he reminded himself, the Jones didn't want him anymore. They only people who wanted him around were these hospital people who got paid to fix what was wrong with him. They ought to focus their efforts elsewhere, because the only thing that could fix Peter was bringing back Ben and May. Not even the best doctors in the world could do that.

"Peter, we want you to understand that we're here to help. We can only do that if you answer our questions. Do you think you can do that?"

Genuinely, Peter shook his head no. Every time he'd attempted to open his mouth since arriving here, any words he'd intended to speak jammed in his throat. He also could foresee exactly what a conversation with a psychiatrist would lead to. If he started talking, eventually the conversation would reach topics like Aunt May's death and the grocery store shooting, and Peter had absolutely no desire to ever relive either of those events.

"That's okay," Dr. van Dyne assured. "How about we stick to just yes or no questions, does that sound good?"

Peter nodded, though he wouldn't meet either doctor's gaze.

"Great. Let's start with some easy ones. Your foster family says you broke your arm falling from a tree. Is that true?"

Yes.

"Were you climbing the tree to get away from something?"

No.

"Was it just for fun?"

No.

"Were you trying to get something out of the tree?"

Yes.

"I see. You climbed up to get it and slipped on the way."

Yes.

"Do you think maybe you fell because you lost consciousness?"

Shrug.

"Do you know what that means?"

Yes.

"Okay. So you're not sure if you passed out. Is that possible?"

Yes.

"Had you eaten anything that day before you climbed the tree?"

No.

"Did the other kids in your family eat before you were all outside?"

Yes.

"Does that happen often, your siblings eating when you don't?"

Peter didn't answer because he finally put it together. The people here thought the Jones neglected him. He couldn't let them think that, but he couldn't conjure the words to correct them. Instead, he just stared solemnly into space.

"Peter, answer the question," Dr. Wilson prompted. He stared at Peter so intently that he could feel it almost like a laser. Peter faked fascination with his cast and ignored them. They got the message that Peter was done talking, but instead of giving up, they moved on. Someone brought in an assortment of food on a tray and set it down on his bedside table. The onset of the fear was instantaneous.

Peter's vision crackled and spiraled and he lost all control of his breathing pattern. Numbness started in his fingertips and worked its way up to his elbows. The doctors' voices called out to him, but they faded into the background of a cacophony of gunshots, screaming, retching, and alarms. Peter tried to curl in on himself, but his stupid arm encased in plaster couldn't properly wrap around his knees.

"Peter, you're not in danger. Just breathe with me," Dr. Wilson encouraged. Peter tried, he really tried, but he couldn't force himself to focus on anything. Time crawled and by the time Peter no longer felt like he was going to pass out and die he had no idea how long the episode had lasted. Dr. Wilson was there, assuring him he was fine, and gradually the haze faded.

"You with us, Peter?"

He nodded.

"Has something like this happened before?"

Yes.

"More than once?"

Yes.

"Have you ever told anyone or gotten help?"

No.

"We can help you. Do you want us to do that?"

Peter didn't know how they could manage that without wiping his memory, but he had nothing to lose. He weakly nodded his head yes.

"Okay," Dr. Wilson said with a warm smile. He and Dr. van Dyne left, but another nurse remained in the room, who introduced himself as Happy. Peter's lip curled up ever so slightly at hearing such a silly name. He offered Peter a cup of water, which he gratefully accepted.

Peter didn't know what form Dr. Wilson's proposed help would take or when he'd start, but he certainly didn't expect to be stuck with another needle and peppered with heart monitor leads. They encased his free arm in a blood pressure cuff, and between that, the IV, and his cast, Peter felt like he couldn't safely move anything. Happy shot something into the line and after a bit Peter started to feel loopy. It was both relaxing and disconcerting at the same time.

What did not relax him was watching Happy and another nurse prepare some sort of tube. Peter was alert enough to know he wasn't going to like what came next, even dosed up with whatever medicine they'd given him.

Happy explained what they were doing as the other nurse, Heimdall, guided Peter to sit up and slightly forward, but none of it stuck in Peter's head until Happy started poking around his nostrils. Peter tried to lean away, but he couldn't exactly go far with Happy right in front of him and Heimdall to his right.

"Peter, I need you to hold still for me," Happy prompted. "I know this isn't fun, but it's necessary." Peter didn't want to be problematic, but he also really didn't want anything shoved up his nose, and that was clearly what Happy intended to do. Heimdall stuck a straw into a glass of water and held it at the ready while Happy introduced the end of the tube to Peter's nose. Steady pain erupted in his face as Happy pushed the tube onward. As a kid, Peter had been taught never to put anything in his nostrils, and now he understood why. The inside of his face did not enjoy a foreign object working its way deeper into his head.

Peter tried to reject it, but Happy was stronger. Heimdall pressed the straw towards him just as the tube reached somewhere it definitely wasn't supposed to be. The urge to gag and cough it up was so strong that Peter felt his entire throat and face contract.

"Come on, drink and swallow," Heimdall instructed gently. "You can do it."

But he couldn't, he just couldn't. He tried to push Happy away, but his one good arm was useless against a full-grown, sturdy man. His throat constricted painfully and he wriggled, but Heimdall held him steady with the arm not holding the cup.

"We're so close to being done," Happy promised. "But, Peter, you need to stop fighting it. You've got to swallow."

Peter steeled himself and sipped from the straw as much as he dared. Something gave, and Happy continued to advance the tube. Peter kept drinking because it gave him something to do other than think about what was happening.

"All done," Happy announced. "You did great."

Peter disagreed—nothing about that experience could ever be described as great—but he didn't argue. He just sat, pliant and miserable, as Happy marked the tube just where it entered his nose, then taped it to his cheek. Peter had expected to react even worse to the procedure, but whatever they'd dosed him up with quieted his bad thoughts enough that they didn't bother him quite so much.

Peter didn't know what time it was, but it had been the longest of long days and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to bed. But the tube was a constant presence in his throat, like a spaghetti noodle stuck longways, and he doubted he could draw his focus far enough away from it to fall asleep. Then, Happy prepared some strange looking mixture and strung it up on the pole beside whatever was flowing into Peter's veins. Peter didn't think that much of it until Happy connected it to the tube in his face and he realized whatever that was was headed towards his stomach. But he had no idea what it was and the mere thought of something unknown entering his system like that scared him enough for the bad thoughts to surge despite the meds. Peter wanted to call out for Happy to stop—to demand to be left alone—but no sounds would come. Instead, nervous tears silently fell, those from his right eye dampening the tape securing the tube. Happy didn't notice until he finished adjusting the settings on the pump.

"Oh Peter, you're alright," Happy soothed. The platitude only made the tears fall faster. The nurse sat down on the bed beside him and gathered Peter in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth. This motion should be reserved for babies and anxious dogs, but Peter couldn't deny it felt good. His arm throbbed, his nose ached, and his head was a nauseating combination of dizzy and nervous and terrified, but Happy's presence was warm and he smelled vaguely like a memory of Peter's dad. Eyelids growing heavy, Peter began to dream about his father's face before he even dozed off.