By the evening, Jeff had reacquainted himself with the emergency ward. He'd been there too many times in his life, sitting at the side of a loved one. Hospitals brought terrifying memories of his children in pain. Over time he'd developed a solid stubbornness inside hospitals. He put himself last every time and refused to listen to anyone or anything that told him to do otherwise. By now he had withdrawn into this familiar sullenness. He'd been at his son's side for just over five hours and was determined not to leave until Alan woke up. He'd sent Scott to get himself some food and sleep. Scott, having learned to mimic his father's behavior to an extent, had obliged with the food, but rejected the idea of sleep.

Jeff gently stroked Alan's hair off his forehead. "Alan," he called quietly. "Alan, come on, sprout." He knew Alan hated the pet name, but somehow Jeff thought it would comfort him to hear it.

Bitter defeat threatened to overtake any hope he had of his son opening his cerulean eyes to look at him, but Jeff refused to let it.

Alan had been doing so well. After the events of spring break, Alan had gradually dealt with the post trauma. His grades in school had been improving and Jeff had agreed to begin training Alan to be a Thunderbird when the summer began.

Jeff sighed. What was going to become of the Thunderbirds now?

Jeff cursed himself. How could he be thinking of International Rescue when his youngest son lay unmoving before him? Over the years it seemed that his dream only added to the complexity of life.

The panic built up inside him again as he was reminded of the present situation. He clasped Alan's hand more forcefully. "Come on Alan, open your eyes," he pleaded. "You have to wake up Alan. Please…"

Alan's eyes remained stubbornly closed and Jeff let out a ragged sigh, finally admitting to the plain and simple fact that his son could not hear him. He forbid the tears in his eyes to fall; refused to break down.

"Alan, wake up," he pleaded. "It's alright, I'm here, wake up for me."

A hand rested on his shoulder. "Dad, let him sleep," Scott's voice gently told him.

---------------------------------------------

He wasn't floating. He wasn't sinking either. He felt like a weight trying to rest on a cloud. At the same time, one side of him (he couldn't tell which) was burning. He tried to see if something was out there with him, but realised that his eyelids were glued shut.

Suddenly he heard a voice; one he knew very well indeed.

"Dad?"

His attempt to call out was in vain. His throat was dry and it was too painful to move his lips. Maybe if he opened his eyes...He screwed up his face in frustration when the simple task proved too difficult. It was then he felt something covering his face down one side. Something was over his nose and mouth too. He didn't like it. He tried to move his hand in an attempt to dislodge the object but found the limb wouldn't obey him completely. But his movement brought about a new awareness; he was in a bed. A pillow was under his head and a light blanket covered him. Content with the return of feeling, he focused on sound.

"Alan? Alan can you hear me?"

"Dad?"

"That's it son. I'm here. Just relax."

Now more determined than ever to see, Alan pried his eyes open, only to be rewarded by a harsh flash of white light. Eliciting a small groan, he clamped them shut again.

"Try again, son. It's ok."

Alan was reluctant. What kind of a place would make opening his eyes so painful? "Where'my?" was all he could say.

"You're in hospital. Alan, can you open your eyes?" Jeff asked.

Alan ignored the request. If he was in hospital, something must have happened to him. Was he hurt on a rescue? No, the school term hadn't ended yet. Did he have an accident at school? He couldn't remember. All he remembered was a deafening roar and the frightened face of his best friend.

"Ferm't"

"Alan, just calm down. I want you to look at me, son," his father instructed.

Alan shook his head with a mumbled "No" then gasped as someone held a white hot poker to his skull. His movement resulted in the object covering his face to fall off but its absence didn't help the sense of claustrophobia. One of his hands was grasped tightly and someone gently held the other side of his face.

"Alan, just relax. It'll be ok. Scott will be back soon with your doctor."

"Sc..." Alan weakly tried to comprehend. He felt like he was going to throw up.

His father hushed him gently but by now Alan was focused only on fear and hence ignorant of this attempt at comfort. Frustrated, he pulled one hand up to his face and rubbed his eye in an attempt to open it. Immediately his hand was pulled away. Alan withdrew and attempted to shuffle his body away from this interference. But as he did pain screamed through his body, radiating from his shoulder, chest and knee. Alan let out a cry of shock.

Suddenly, a new voice penetrated the darkness. "Alan, can you hear me? My name is Dr. Quaid. Can you open your eyes for me?"

No, it's too hard! Alan wanted to scream. But all he could manage was, "Mmmph!"

"Okay Alan, I'm just going to wipe your eyes with some water. It won't hurt," said Dr Quaid as something cool, soft and wet gently ran over his eyes. It felt heavenly. Alan could finally open his eyes. He was in a small cubicle with curtains drawn. Above him were three figures; his father to his right, a man he could only assume was Dr Quaid to his left and behind the doctor stood Scott. Alan squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright light of the sterile environment.

"Well done," commended Dr Quaid. "Alan, do you know where you are?"

The light and familiar smells of antiseptic and latex gloves, combined with a vague memory of his father's earlier clarification, encouraged his guess. Alan nodded and immediately regretted it. Once again he had to rely on his voice. "H'sp'tal" he managed out.

"Good," Dr Quaid mused. "Do you remember the accident?"

Accident? The roar. Screaming. A shattering sound following by a deafening bang. But no images. No memory.

Alan swallowed. "No, I can't," he whimpered, dismayed and frightened by this realisation.

Dr Quaid's brow creased slightly. "Okay, well that's to be expected with a head injury. Speaking of which, now that you're awake I'd like to run a few tests and another examination. We need to determine if any internal bleeding has developed or if anything needs monitoring."

Alan was confused. "What's wrong with me?" he asked, looking up to his father for any kind of comfort.

He was relieved when Jeff squeezed his hand. "Nothing serious at the moment, Alan. You've done some damage to your knee and shoulder and you've got a few broken ribs. They'll heal in time."

"The main concern we have is the head injury you sustained. In order to be able to assess you properly we wanted to wait until you regained consciousness," Dr Quaid told him, calmly.

Alan's head was reeling. "Wha...don't understand. What happened? Why can't I remember anything?" he asked, his vision going foggy as if he was about to faint. At first it scared him, but instead of passing out, he felt hot tears rolling down his face.

His Dad soothed him. "Hey, calm down. It's ok. Shhhh."

"Alan, you were in an accident," Scott told him, gently. "A truck crashed into your school bus on the way back to Wharton from an excursion."

Alan was thankful that someone had finally thought to tell him that detail, but it didn't help his confusion. Dr Quaid pulled him out of his thoughts. "Alan, are you in any pain?" he asked, pulling out his stethoscope and walking towards him.

Alan replied instantly. "M' head, on the side and...pretty much everything," he concluded. He couldn't think and his memory loss was troubling him. He was so confused. Fermat's horrified face pounced on his mind again, but he couldn't remember where it was from. Was Fermat in the accident? Was he ok? What had happened?

Again, he was intruded upon by Dr Quaid. "Alan, I'm just going to listen to your chest, okay? I'll be gentle, I promise."

Alan held out a hand to obstruct Dr Quaid's advance. "No," he murmured, frowning despite the pain it caused. He wanted answers first.

"Alan, I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to do a physical," Dr Quaid assured him.

Although Quaid's voice was calm, it irritated Alan, and he continued to resist the doctor in any way he was capable.

"No, stop. Just, just wait, please stop! I don't understand!"

The throbbing in his head intensified, making him elicit an involuntary groan.

Jeff was speaking to him now. "Alan, it's ok, just relax. It won't take very long."

"Fermat...wait! Just let me...just wait," Alan moaned, getting more agitated. More hands held him now; big mistake. "Let go! Stop it! Leave me alone!" he cried, now scared as to why they were not listening to him.

"Alan..."

"Alan, calm down..."

"Alan, it's all right..."

The voices were everywhere, invading his consciousness. The pounding in his head grew unbearable. "Just wait, just stop!"

"Wait for what Alan? What's wrong?" asked Scott, his voice filled with concern.

"Can't think...just stop it!" was all Alan could get out. He brought a hand to his head, his fingers trying to dig away the bandage in a vain and random attempt to stop the pain. Immediately he was restrained again. "Let go, please!" he cried, more tears running down his face.

Another sound pierced the atmosphere; an unrelenting, sharp beeping noise that was growing steadily faster.

Dr Quaid started to speak again, this time from above his head. "Alan, you need to calm down," he said sternly.

Go away! Alan wanted to yell, but instead mumbled, "What?"

Now everything in his body hurt, the pain flaring particularly around his chest and stomach. He couldn't breathe! It hurt too much. It was so hot and they were smothering him. Why couldn't they give him space? All he wanted to do was think; all he wanted to do was remember; why was that so hard?

"Dad...it hurts...Da...please just give me some sp..." Alan cut his own gibbering off with a frustrated moan. The beeping was growing faster and louder. Dr Quaid gently put a hand under his chin, pulling his head up and placing a mask over his face. "Easy now, Alan. Just take some slow deep breaths for me," he instructed in a frightening stern voice.

Alan did not like that at all and once again he tried to raise a hand to fight the obstruction. He was either too weak or stopped as Quaid gently but firmly kept his head tilted upwards. The position was making Alan feel dizzy, or was that an effect of whatever it was he was being forced to inhale.

No! I don't want that! I need to think! he silently protested. When he realised that struggling was useless on his part, he began to sob in despair. It hurt, but he did not know what else to do.

Why won't they listen to me? He couldn't keep track of what was happening, not even as the room spun into a black oblivion.