Hello! For those of you who celebrate it, I hope you all have had a marvelous Thanksgiving and that you are all in food comas!

Secondly, here is where I should mention that I really know absolutely nothing about amputations or the recovery process/length of time beyond what I have read during a Google search while writing this story. So, in attempt to be as accurate as possible, I also kept things fairly vague. As far as the emotions that many amputees and their loved ones might experience, I also have no knowledge on such matters, so I may have taken creative licenses here. It's my story, I can do that, right? :)

Anyways, as always, read and please review at the end!

Chapter 4 (Don)

Sometimes when Don woke up and realized that someone was in the room with him, he would pretend to be asleep, at least for awhile, just for a chance to be alone with his thoughts. He understood why there were always people with him and he didn't really feel like asking them to leave him alone. So pretending to nap was his only real option.

But god, he really hated this. So far, it wasn't so much his leg being suddenly not there that was frustrating him—he'd hardly been out of bed enough for that. It was just the whole thing. Feeling sick and tired, not moving for so long, and everything being so goddamn difficult to do was making him feel almost as if he were still trapped under a car, unable to help himself. And knowing that as soon as he was able to get up out of the bed, his life was going to start changing in possibly more ways than he could even anticipate, was not helping him feel better at all.

He had just barely started to admit to himself that he was actually a little afraid to start feeling better. Because that would mean starting parts of his life all over. That alone was a thought that to Don, of almost 42 years of age, was terrifying beyond belief. He was getting too old to start anything all over again.

Physically, he had been improving steadily over the past five or so days. He still slept more often than he was awake, but he was starting to gain a little strength and all the parts of him that had been sliced open as a result of the accident were healing nicely. He was due to start physical therapy soon, and as soon as he gained enough mobility from that he would be released from the hospital. He'd learned that generally patients started to get up and move around the day after the surgery, but in his case, he'd been sick and was suffering other injuries, so it was even more complicated. It was a strange dilemma, he'd found, because he was physically unable to move for a while, but the longer he spent not moving, the harder it would be to start. The doctor figured he was looking at another couple of weeks in the hospital—which Don had mixed feelings about. While he hated hated hated being in the hospital, he was afraid of what would await him as soon as he was released.

There was a soft knock on the door, but Don pretended not to notice—he pretended to still be asleep. His dad got up to answer it.

"Amita, hey," his dad whispered. "Is Charlie with you?" The hope in his voice was practically tangible, Don thought. He guessed that his sister-in-law must have shaken her head, because his father continued. "I was afraid this might happen."

"Me trying to get him to come was a pretty short conversation," Amita explained, her voice volume lowered to respect Don's "sleeping". "I'm not even sure what argument to make anymore. The only one I had was pretty much shot down right away."

Don heard his dad sigh. "It's hard, I agree. It's hard to convince someone of something when you aren't entirely sure what they're thinking."

Amita let out a small huff of breath. "Oh, that's not it. I pretty much know what he's thinking. He thinks Don blames him for this. He thinks Don doesn't really want to see him. He's afraid that if he comes, he's just going to make Don feel worse. He legitimately thinks we all blame him, I know it. It's just that whenever I try to tell him that he's wrong, or that it isn't all his fault, it's like I might as well be talking to a wall."

Damn, Charlie. Things may have been worse for Charlie than Don had imagined. He'd been sleeping so much the last few days that while he'd noticed that his younger brother hadn't been by to visit, it hadn't become a big deal yet. Don wasn't stupid, he'd figured that Charlie would feel some shred of guilt over what had happened to him, but his mind had been swirling with so many thoughts that he hadn't had a chance to focus on that particular one yet. But now that Amita had shared her insight, he allowed himself to realize that there might possibly be a serious problem.

His dad had seemed as startled by Amita's blunt and clearly frustrated assessment as he had. It took the oldest Eppes awhile to come up with a response.

"Oh, Amita," he said, "have I ever told you how glad I am that my son found someone that was able to know and understand him so well?"

With his eyes closed, Don didn't see whatever Amita's non-verbal response was.

"I'll get around to having this conversation with him sometime soon," his dad was saying. "It's just difficult to leave Don here. I don't want to leave him here. It makes me feel better just sitting here and knowing he's still here. And when I do come home, I never seem to have the energy to really talk to Charlie—instead I just need to, you know, be in a room with him too, like Donnie. It helps just to sit with them—to know they're alive."

Exactly why I'm lying here, pretending to be asleep, instead of just asking you to leave me alone, Don thought to himself.

"I understand," Amita assured his father. "How's Don been doing, anyway?"

Don stiffened. He tried to quickly decide if he should "wake up" before he had to listen to an answer to this question, but his father beat him to it.

"I'm not really sure," his dad said. "He acts like this doesn't bother him too much, but I mean really, how can it not? I mean, this is the worst thing that's probably ever happened to him, but I don't know. I think he might still be in shock a little bit over the whole thing. But I know he's terrified. He thinks he can hide it from me, but he can't. Typical Donnie, he tries to act like he's Superman but we all know he's not. I can't even really imagine the depth of the fear that must be going through him right now."

Man. His dad sure knew him better than he figured. In fact, Don's dad might know him better than Don himself did. Because Don sure couldn't even imagine his own fear about everything yet.

Suddenly, Don didn't feel like being isolated with his own thoughts anymore. He needed contact with other people.

He stirred a little; drawing the attention of the room's other two occupants. He blinked his eyes open, reaching his right arm up to rub his face.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," his dad greeted him. "How was your nap?"

"God, Dad, you're making me feel like I'm five," Don protested.

"Well, five or forty-one, you're still my son," his father argued. "Really, how are you feeling?"

Don sighed. "I'm okay. Where's Robin?"

"Oh, I sent her off to go get something to eat. I just got back from doing so myself a few minutes ago, right before Amita got here."

Don let his eyes stray over to his sister-in-law and flashed her a small smile. "Hey, Amita."

"Hey, Don," Amita greeted softly, returning his smile. "You look a lot better than the last time I was here a few days ago."

"Thanks," he said. He hesitated. Should he ask about Charlie? He already knew the answer and he didn't want to frustrate Amita further, but it might seem suspicious if he didn't ask. He had to ask. "I see Charlie must have stayed home."

Amita shared a hesitant glance with his dad. They were analyzing the situation together; what should we tell him? It was his dad who finally answered him.

"Well, you know Donnie, he's still recovering from a pretty nasty concussion himself," his dad spluttered. "He still needs to rest at home a little bit more. It's probably best. I'm sure he'll come in a couple days."

Don sure hoped his raised eyebrows accurately conveyed his skepticism. Did his father really think he was fooling him?

"Dad," he said, "it's okay. I know how Charlie is. He probably just needs his space for a little while. He'll be all right."

"You're right," his dad agreed with a smile that was meant to be reassuring but didn't quite reach his eyes. "He just needs a little time."

Fear, guilt, and worry had caused fatigue which in turn had led to more sleeping than Don would have liked. It was amazing, really, how one could become so depleted of energy that he could just sleep and sleep all day long and still be able to sleep later.

Most of the time, when he woke up, he couldn't remember how long he'd been asleep or how long he'd even been in the hospital. It was quickly becoming an endless cycle of waking and sleeping, waking and sleeping. It took Don a little by surprise how disorienting it was.

His energy had obviously been zapped away, but it was slowly returning—and slowly bringing back his mental function as well. For the first time, he actually almost paid his full attention when his doctor came in to examine him-almost.

His dad was in the room with him, but was sitting off to the side, near the window and out of the way of the doctor. Don lay there, more or less staring at the ceiling for most of the process. He was tired. He wished Dr. Morrison would leave so that he could return to his nap.

His leg was suddenly being probed—no, wait. Not really his leg. His stump, it was called. The doctor was messing around, doing something in the area where his leg should be but wasn't. For some reason, he was thrown a little off guard by this. Why? It wasn't like this was the first time he'd been awake during an examination. He'd felt what it was like to be touched in an area where there was supposed to be a leg. Why was it suddenly so shocking?

Oh, dear God. His leg was gone—the same leg he'd had his entire life. He struggled to sit up a little, under the guise of simply being curious as to what the doctor was doing. He looked down to where his leg had once been, picturing it in his mind's eye.

He could see the scar on the top of his foot he'd gotten as a teenager, slipping down through some sharp rocks at the beach one weekend. Don smiled to himself; he could remember that he'd had a hell of a time explaining to his parents how it had happened without mentioning the alcohol that had been a factor.

He could remember the way his leg had felt when he was sixteen and had broken that ankle playing baseball—and how inconsolably grouchy he'd been at having to sit out the rest of the season.

He could see his toes. The shape of his foot. The well-toned calf, partially obscured by many little dark hairs. Even his knee was gone—the damage had been so severe and the infection had begun to spread just enough that the doctors couldn't even salvage his knee. That would make rehabilitation even more difficult, because he'd learned that swinging a prosthetic leg with a fake knee took way more energy than it would if he had his own real knee.

He could picture the motion of his leg as he ran on it—whether from second to third base, or from chasing down fugitives, or through the neighborhood as a kid during some round of "cops and robbers." He could feel the soles of his shoes as he ran. Cleats, tennis shoes, dress shoes. Sandals. No shoes.

He'd been through a lot with that leg. Don wasn't sure how he felt about it being gone. It was almost like he had suddenly started grieving over it. It had hit him like a ton of bricks—had smashed over him, leaving him in a dazed stupor. Was it ridiculous to feel like mourning for it?

"Donnie?" He was suddenly aware of his dad calling his name. He snapped his head around to face his father, whose gaze was brimming with love and concern. "Donnie, the doctor asked you a question."

"Oh, uh, sorry," he stammered, ashamed. "What was it?"

"I was just asking you how the pain was down here," Dr. Morrison answered. His voice was full of patience, and Don was grateful.

"Uh, it feels better I guess," Don answered, truthfully. He hadn't really noticed much more than a dull twinge lately.

"That's good to hear," Dr. Morrison smiled. "If you think you're ready, I want to start you on therapy right away. Maybe even this afternoon. All right? We need to get you out of this bed."

"Yeah, okay," Don muttered, once again staring back down at the sheets, which had been pulled back over to cover up his non-leg.

"All right, Don, we'll see you later," the doctor was saying. He probably left then, but Don really wasn't paying much attention anymore.

"Donnie," his dad said as stood up and dragged his chair close to the bed before sitting back down. "What's up, Donnie? Are you okay?"

Come on, Don, get it together, he berated himself. He turned his head, looking his dad in the eye, nodding.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine," he said. He had to give himself credit; he'd kept his voice fairly strong and in control, given the circumstances. He kept his face solid, watching his dad.

His father clearly wasn't buying it. The face Don saw was a picture of skepticism and disbelief. In that moment, he saw a mere shadow of his own feelings reflected in his father's features. He could see the fear, the worry, the anxiety, the awful and debilitating fear that maybe everything wouldn't be all right.

"Donnie, come on." His father's voice had taken on an exasperated edge. "This is big deal. This is an absolutely huge change for you and I'm a little worried. Don, you do seem fine, but you shouldn't be. You should be afraid, you should be upset, something! You know? Donnie, it's okay to let yourself feel something about this."

No, Dad, I don't know if it is. A small part of him wanted to spill his guts; he needed his daddy to reassure him that everything would be okay. But on the other hand, he needed to be okay and fine himself, or he'd never be able to get through it. If he let himself be too upset about it now, it would only make it harder later. Besides, it sounded like the rest of them could use some strength and solidarity from him. Especially Charlie.

Charlie. That was another thing all together. Charlie had to know that Don was okay, or he'd never stop blaming himself for what happened. It was frustrating beyond all comprehension that Charlie was obviously struggling deeply with this and Don couldn't do a damn thing to help there, either. Not with Charlie at the house and him stuck here.

"I know, Dad," he finally said. "And believe me, I'm definitely—uh, I'm definitely scared. I just . . . don't know if it's fully hit me yet, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." His dad lay a hand on his shoulder, and Don sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, son. I understand."

Don nodded, but didn't say anything. He went back to staring at the same spot on the bed. The spot where there should be a bump in the sheets from his leg—but there wasn't.

No, it definitely hasn't fully hit me yet. He gingerly ran an IV-clad hand through his hair. But it's starting to, that's for sure.

TBC