I know I was supposed to post the next chapter of "Between Love and Loss" before I updated this story (and I am working on it, I promise) but I've been having some technically difficulties with that chapter, and finishing it has just been a very slow process. So I thought I'd finish the next chapter of this story and get it posted. So here it is.

I hope you all enjoy it, and thank you all so much for all of your fantastic feedback and encouragement!

CHAPTER IV

~LETHAL FLAME~

"Lower half crushed by the vehicle, both legs injured, third degree burns, bleeding heavily."

"He's lost consciousness; get him awake."

"Hurry! Tourniquets! He's lost a lot of blood."

The next thing he was aware of, he was sprawled out on his back, and all around him—everywhere—there was chaos. Noise blaring, sirens screaming, pounding against his eardrums, irregular beeping, people shouting, unidentifiable and frightening sounds like the whaling of demons, lights blinding him, hitting his eyes, burning them up like the fire burning his flesh, red flashes like the flames that might greet a man as he enters hell, blurry figures moving around him, frantic arms passing over him, urgent hands with syringes jabbing needles into his arms and legs. There were voices too, muddled and confused, echoing through some dark tunnel, running into stone walls and ricocheting the other way, slamming into barriers, colliding with each other, mixing, breaking, crumpling into hideous deformities. These were the voices of the damned souls wrestling in vain and in panic to escape the pit of fire they were drowning in.

He was killed in the car crash, in the fire, he thought. He died in the fire, and now he was in hell. Yet, surprisingly, he did not feel terror upon realizing this. Like one who is dead, he could not feel much at all.

"Monsieur, I need you stay awake for as long as you can. Keep your eyes open and look at me. I need you to look at me."

Who is talking? He could hear the voice, even as distorted as it was, but he did not know where it was coming from. All sounds seemed to come at him from all directions, hitting him at the same time, penetrating his ears, ringing through his skull, hurting him, torturing him, tormenting him, driving him insane. One of the blurry figures beside him moved closer to him, gliding like a phantom, and loomed over him. Time passed, and he was able to make out the face of a young—no, an old; in a bizarre way, he looked both very young and very old—man.

"This fabric is still hot; it's burning him. We need to get his clothing off."

"Maybe, we should wait until we get to the hospital."

"There is not time to wait. We must do it now."

The man spoke again, "Monsieur, can you hear me?"

This man must have been speaking to him. He was looking directly at him, into his eyes. He must have been speaking to him. So, with a terrible effort, he pried apart his dry lips and forced a hoarse, strained, withered—it seemed his vocal cords had burned up and shriveled like the rest of his ruined body—word to fall through them. "Yes."

Somewhere out of his vision, people were handling his wounded body. They stabbed a large needle into his thigh and injected something into whatever was left of his quad muscles. It felt as if they had set his leg on fire all over again. He winced in agony.

The man nodded once and spoke again in a loud, as to be heard over the blaring tumult around him, and urgent voice, "I need you to keep your eyes open and keep looking at me. Keep looking into my eyes. You need to stay awake. That's very important, do you understand?"

Very weakly, he tried to nod his head. As if he had lost all control over his body, as if he was paralyzed, as if his body was dead and only a ghost remained, he could not move his neck. He had not the strength even to nod his head. So he opened his lips, and a voice that did not sound anything like his own—a voice that rasped and crackled like an old man's, or like dried out logs as they die in the fire, rough, hoarse, strained, broken—whispered, "Yes."

"Good. I am going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer them the best you can."

As he spoke in that calm, steady, soothing voice, hidden beneath which there must have been anxiety and terror, his hands were flying rapidly, working ceaselessly. He finished preparing whatever it was he was preparing and stuck a needle into his arm. He felt a short rush of pain as the metal barb pierced through his skin and entered his muscle, but not even his reflexes seemed to be working now. He did not flinch. His muscles did not even tense. He tried to nod and had no way to know if he managed to do so.

"What is your name?"

His hands working swiftly, the man began unbuttoning the front of his red, blood-sodden shirt. Cold air hit his bare stomach and a moment later his bare chest. It was cold.

It was a great and painful effort just to move his jaw. He answered weakly in that voice which he did not know, "Enjolras."

The paramedic grabbed something in his hand, and he saw a flash of metal, gleaming like the knife of a killer in the red reflection of the lights. It was a pair of scissors. The man cut slits down the sleeves of his shirt, and they removed it, leaving him unclothed from the waist up. Exposed, vulnerable, weak. Helpless.

"How old are you, Enjolras?"

Several others, all kneeling down around him, took multiple pairs of scissors and began cutting off the rest of his clothing, removing his shirt, his belt, his pants, his underwear... whatever was left of any of these things, as most of his clothing had burned up in the fire, and only shriveled, blacked tatters, still hot and smoking, still burning him, were left clinging to or embedded in his furious, red, and boiling flesh. His entire body seemed to be losing feeling, going numb, dying; however, he felt the pain as they pealed the cloth out of his wounds, which the fabric had sunken into. The paramedics removed the remains of his clothes. Now, he knew but only vaguely considered, he was naked. Any other time, Enjolras would have been outraged, humiliated, and shamed. Now, however, despite his modesty, his pride, and his dignity, he was too weak—too ruined—to care. What did it matter? He would be dead soon anyway.

"Twenty," he answered in a voice so faint it could barely be heard. It is astonishing the paramedic could hear him over the tornado of the sirens. Perhaps he read his lips.

"He's gone into shock," a faceless voice called urgently from out of his sight.

The man speaking to him ripped open the Velcro on a sphygmomanometer and fastened the blood-pressure cuff around Enjolras's arm as one of the other medics placed telemetry leads, circular stickers connected to colorful wires, on his naked chest to connect him to a cardiac monitor. Squeezing the bulb—the cuff tightened around Enjolras's arm—the paramedic asked, "Are you a student?"

"Yes."

Two more needles, each connected to a long IV tube, were stuck into his arm. It felt like an icy gust of winter air passing up his arm and chilling his bone as fluid rushed into his vein. He trembled.

"Where are your parents? Are they in Paris?"

"No," Enjolras mumbled—his words were becoming unclear, muddled, slurred, running together; it was hard to understand him. "They live in Uzès."

"Heart rate and blood pressure dropping," another voice declared.

"And what are their names?" said the man speaking to him. His voice remained calm and gentle. It was as if he did not hear the anxious decrees of the other medics. It was as if he did not see the disarray happening around him. It was as if he did not know this young man—this twenty-year-old student, called a man but really only a boy—was about to die before his very eyes. Did he not realize Enjolras was going to die? Did he really think there was any hope left?

Enjolras gritted his teeth as the pain in his skull increased and the feeling in his body became less and less. He could feel his life draining out of him, slipping away from him, departing into the frightful oblivion called death. It scared him. He was afraid. Through clenched jaws, he muttered, "Angèle and Jacques Enjolras."

A pair of hands concealed by white gloves lowered a plastic mask over his face. He remained still, his body tensing, afraid to move, as they positioned it over his mouth and nose. It was an oxygen mask, someone told him. "Breathe deep."

"Can you tell me their phone number?"

He did not answer. He had to think. He knew his parents' number, as it had been his number as well since the time of his childhood. He could recall it without considering it. Yet now, when they asked it of him, he could not remember. He tried to remember. He strained his aching mind trying to remember… Nothing came to him. It was maddening, trying to recall what he knew he knew but could not think of at the moment. He knew it, but he just couldn't… He couldn't remember.

"Temperature 103.6 and rising," a voice said from somewhere in the ambulance. They must have taken his temperature (he could not remember them doing so), or perhaps one the machines they had him hooked up to was monitoring it.

"I can't remember," at last he admitted, admitting defeat.

Although he did well to conceal it, Enjolras caught a glimpse of concern in the man's kind eyes. "Do you remember what day it is?"

Again, Enjolras was silent. He had to think another moment… He knew it was late spring… or early summer. Today was the last day of college, he slowly remembered. It was June then. He was driving home to see his parents when the car crashed. School was over, he was going home, it was summer, it was June, it was the last day of the semester, he was going home… So it must have been… "Friday?"

"Yes," said the man with a reassuring nod. "And do you know what month it is?"

"June."

"How about the date?"

Silence. Enjolras tried to think. His eyelids were heavy, and it was a struggle to hold them open. It was making his head spin. He let them close.

"Keep your eyes open," the man reminded him at once. "For just a little longer, you need to stay awake."

Oh. He had forgotten. With painful effort, he opened his eyes again. The dim lights that flashed in this dark room around him were hurting his eyes, burning them like the smoke that could still smell, still taste, still feel burning his nose, throat, and chest. It was hard to breathe. He could still smell blood. He could smell also a vile order so sicken he wanted to gag. The hideous reek of burning human flesh.

Something—one of the electronic deceives or monitors they had him connected to—started beeping. A high-pitched, horrible, piercing screech, crying out again and again, over and over, like a warning, like a death sentence. You are going to die! You are going to die! You are going to die! It was like the timer on a bomb that is about to explode, a timer counting down the seconds he had left to live.

He tried to ignore everything that he saw and heard around him, which was difficult, and he tried to ignore his fear, which was impossible. He tried to think… What did it matter? It was not worth it. His head was hurting. He gave up trying. "I don't remember."

"Fever rising past 104."

"Pulse dropping."

I'm dying, thought Enjolras. Like his languishing body, he was numb inside. Hollow. Empty. There was a terrible cavern of nothingness inside of him, filling his corpse—perhaps because his soul had already taken wings and dislodged itself from the body that had imprisoned it for all these years… He was twenty years old, and he was dying. In that manner of thinking, it had not been so many years at all. I am dying, he thought again emptily, but he could feel the grave darkness of this decree looming above him and weighing down upon him. He could feel Death, himself, looming above him, waiting.

Death hovered over him, silently beating his back wings, looking down on him and waiting to take him. Death is invisible to the human eye, inaudible to the human ear, unperceivable to those who are still alive. Only when a soul departs from this life into the next can a man, now immortal, see the Angel of Death. Now, when he was so close to dying, dying already, minutes—perhaps seconds—from death, Enjolras still could not see Death. However, he could sense him. He could sense his presence. As clearly as one can sense another mortal in a room with him, staring at him ceaselessly, Enjolras could feel the presence of Death. He could feel those cold eyes—all-seeing, unblinking—watching him, penetrating him. Without question, Death was present in that back of that ambulance. Or perhaps, if it were not the Angel of Death, the Angel of the Lord.

Feeling the Angel's presence with him, the Angel beside him, the Angel's hands on him, the Angel's arms around him, the Angel's embrace holding him, carrying him, in contrary to what he might have expected, Enjolras was not afraid. His was comforted. He was relieved. What little pain he could still feel began to fade away.

The medic who was talking to the dying student this entire time looked over his shoulder to inquire where they were. Receiving an answer, he turned back to the patient to tell him that they would be at to the hospital in only a few minutes, to tell him to hold on just a little longer. But Enjolras's eyes had already closed.

The cardiac monitor screamed.

…

"Enjolras? Uh, hey, it's Combeferre. I've been calling you for the last ten minutes, and you still have not answered your phone. I know you're driving, but if you get a chance, please call me back. I'm getting really worried. Okay… Uh… Bye." He hung up the phone.

"Enjolras still isn't answering," Combeferre said, and restless fear, dread and panic, could be heard overwhelming his voice, as it overwhelmed his face and soul as well. His innards churned in his gut like worms withering under the heat of the sun, drying out and dying on the pavement. He felt sick. He felt as if he was going to throw up. He knew something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

How do they know when someone they love is in danger? How do they know when he has been hurt… or killed? How does a mother know when her child is in pain, even when she is worlds away from him? Why does she receive that spontaneous feeling of dread and somehow know that something is wrong? Something has happened. How does a brother know when his brother is in terrible, mortal, lethal danger?

Something, some mysterious instinct that not even doctors or scientists with all of their knowledge and technology and pride have been able to explain. It is something that goes beyond what is logical and what is explainable. Yet, there is no doubt, that there is sometimes a strange, supernatural even, connection between friends, families, people who love each other. It alerts someone when their friend has been hurt. It fills someone when their best friend has been killed. It is instinct. It is devotion. It is the divine power of love. Whatever it was, it was warning Combeferre now. Something was wrong. Something terrible was happening… or had happened already.

Immediately, Combeferre began pressing the buttons on his cell phone, calling Enjolras another time. He held the phone to his ear in terrible anxiety, his legs shaking, his knee bouncing, and he listened to it ring. Come on, answer the phone! Answer, answer! Please answer, please answer. Please, let him answer the phone! It rang again. And again. And again. And again.

"We're sorry," the too sunny, too friendly, false, robotic-sounding woman's voice cut in at last, "the person whom you are trying to reach is not available at this time." Enjolras never set up the voicemail on his phone. So Combeferre did not even get to hear his voice on the recording. Already, it seemed, his friend was miles out of his reach, worlds away, gone. He was gone, and Combeferre had no way of getting to him, not even speaking to him. "Please leave a message after the sound of the beep or try calling again later. Thank you!" The phone beeped. But Combeferre did not leave another message; that would just be a waste of precious time. He ripped the phone away from his ear, hung up, and began calling again.

"Combeferre, his phone is probably turned off," Courfeyrac finally said. At this point, he knew it was useless. He knew Enjolras was not going to answer his phone. In his heart, Combeferre knew this too. Nonetheless, he refused to admit it. He refused to believe what he already knew to be true.

"No, it's not," Combeferre answered at once, raising the phone to his ear once more. "I can hear the phone ringing. If it was turned off it would go straight to voicemail."

"Maybe Enjolras turned it on silent then," Courfeyrac suggested. He turned the wheel sharply, and they sped off down another street. His eyes were glued to the road as he raced through the dark Parisian streets, searching in vain for any sign of a crashed vehicle, a police car, an ambulance, or Grantaire… or perhaps Enjolras. "And you know Enjolras does not answer his phone when he's driving."

"He would have answered," said Combeferre, overcome with dread and fear. Almost as if to himself, he muttered, "When he saw me calling so many times, he would have answered. He would have known something was wrong. He would have answered. He would have answered…"

"Not if his phone was silenced. He would never have heard you calling."

Combeferre shook his head. That awful, mechanical voice answered the phone, and Combeferre hung up before she could finish saying "We're sorry—"

"Something is wrong, Courfeyrac," Combeferre said. Like a man in shock, in denial, who persists deliriously even when he knows it has been far too late for a time far too long, even when he knows it is useless, it is pointless, it is hopeless, he persists anyway. He knows the truth. He knows he cannot avoid it. Like death, itself, no man can evade it. Yet he persists anyway. He refused to believe it. He called Enjolras again. "Something is wrong."

"What do you mean?" Courfeyrac felt a pang of fear like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of him, making it impossible to breathe. He tore his gaze away from the road and fixed his terror-filled eyes on Combeferre. "You don't think… You don't really think it was Enjolras," he said as if the very suggestion was absurd, as if he really had no doubts that this was false. Then, his voice became soft and weak, utterly helpless and afraid, as he whimpered, "…Do you?"

Combeferre gritted his teeth. He did not answer. Courfeyrac's dread became greater. His friend's silence was as clear as would be a spoken answer. Yes. He feared it was Enjolras.

Combeferre was looking down at this phone, selection Enjolras's name in his contacts, when Courfeyrac came to the intersection and turned onto that lonely road. "My God…" he heard Courfeyrac breath, and Combeferre's heart stopped. "Combeferre, look," Courfeyrac whispered.

Combeferre did not want to look. Every instinct—as human nature does not wish to see disaster, or tragedy, or blood, or death, which he detests and fears—told him to drop his eyes and stare at the ground, not to look up, to spare himself from witnessing this horrible thing. He fought against himself, his own instincts and his own mind, which he could feel resisting as he raised his face and looked through the windshield. He echoed Courfeyrac's words, "My God…"

This dark country-side road was ablaze with a chaotic muddle of lights: red and blue lights flashing over multiple police cars, white and red lights blaring over a parked ambulance, red lights sparking over three fire engines, a red glare reflecting off of the back asphalt causing the road to look like it was bathing in blood. Grantaire's large black truck was parked in the middle of the road not far from the commotion. Even from this distance and through the darkness, Combeferre and Courfeyrac could see how the front of the vehicle was dreadfully dented and busted. Quite a far away—it must have been thrown during the accident—was the other car, or what was left of it.

The fire was out now for the most part, but firemen were still around the vehicle soaking it with the contents of their huge hoses, and black smoke was rising from the car as if from the pit of hell. The car, as desolated as it was, they could tell was painted red, and on the back of the vehicle they could see the circular red, white, and blue magnet that looked the same as the badges worn by Les Amis de l'ABC. They had been with Enjolras on that day after school when he put it on the back of his car. Beside it, they recognized a sticker of a French flag with "Vive la France" written in red across the center white stripe. As much as they wanted to, they could not deny it. This was Enjolras's car.

"Oh, my God," Combeferre heard Courfeyrac whisper again beside him. He, himself, was still too shocked and too terrified to say anything. He could hardly breathe.

Courfeyrac let his foot fall heavily on the pedal, and the car lurched toward the scene of the accident. Police officers immediately started toward them, waving for them to turn around and go the other way, but Courfeyrac ignored them. He drove straight past them and pulled up beside the ambulance. They saw Grantaire.

He was sitting in the back of the ambulance, the doors of which were open, so they could to see inside. There were people all around him, medics as well as police officers, blocking their view, but nonetheless they could see him. He was sitting up! That, at least, was a good sign—a great sign, in fact! Grantaire was alive, he was conscious, he was sitting up. Thank God. However, he did not look well at all. His face was stricken, and his eyes wild. He looked as if his mind was gone in frenzied panic, delirium, or shock, probably all three. He was speaking restlessly to the officers around him. He looked hysterical. The paramedics were checking his vital signs, examining him for injury, feeling his neck, wrapping bandages around his bloody arms. Oh, God, he was hurt! Yet, he could not have been hurt too badly, or else they would have taken him to the Emergency Room alright, right? Yes. Grantaire would be alright. He would survive. He would be okay. But where was Enjolras…?

"Enjolras isn't here," Combeferre said in panic.

Courfeyrac rolled down the window as one of the officers approached the vehicle. "We're their friends," he explained rapidly, and the policeman could hear the terror in his voice, see it in his eyes. "Where is—"

"They took him in the ambulance," the man answered in a solemn tone before Courfeyrac finished asking. "They're on the way to the ER, left about five minutes ago."

"Thank you," said Courfeyrac, and he turned immediately to Combeferre. "I'm getting out." Few words had been spoken between them, but much had been exchanged. Each of them understood.

Combeferre nodded curtly once, and they both rushed into action like soldiers on a battle field executing orders. Courfeyrac opened the door and hurried out of the car; Combeferre clambered hastily into the driver's seat, took the wheel, and before the door had fully closed behind Courfeyrac, who was already running across the street, he took off.

Combeferre's car disappeared into the darkness, as Courfeyrac ran across the road and approached the ambulance. When he was close enough, he could hear Grantaire speaking feverishly in a voice that sounded nothing like his own carefree, mischievous, cynical voice, but helpless, weak, and petrified. "I tried to get him out, but I couldn't. There was fire, and I— I tried, but his legs were stuck, and when I tried to pull him out, he started bleeding more, and—"

"Grantaire!"

Grantaire flinched and jumped, frightened by the voice. When he turned his head so suddenly, sharp pain shot through his neck, he cringed, and he saw Courfeyrac. "Courfeyrac!"

Without thinking or asking the medics for permission, not caring, forgetting about them entirely, he rose to his feet. He expected his friend to be as ashamed and disgraced by him as he was himself, or more. He expected Courfeyrac to yell at him, scream at him, hit him even, call him all of the rightfully terrible things that he was, tell him never to speak to him again, never even to look at him, and to storm away. Instead, Courfeyrac went straight to him and wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Grantaire," Courfeyrac said softly. "Thank God. Are you okay?"

Grantaire did not answer. After several seconds, he finally raised his trembling arms to return Courfeyrac's embrace. Courfeyrac let him go and stepped back to get a better look at him. He looked awful, but besides his arms, which were now bandaged from his wrists to his elbows, he did not look hurt. He turned to the nearest medic and asked urgently, "How bad is he hurt?"

"There are bad burns on his arms," the man replied, "second to third degree. He hit his head, has a concussion, and we don't know how badly his neck is injured."

"I'm fine," said Grantaire abruptly. He turned his head, and his terrified eyes looked straight into Courfeyrac's. "Courfeyrac," a quivering whisper fell through his lips. He appeared on the verge of tears when he forced himself to say to continue. "It was Enjolras, Courf… I hit Enjolras." Hysterically, he rambled, "I tried to get him out, but I couldn't. He was on fire! He wasn't moving; he wasn't awake… Courfeyrac, I don't even know if he was alive."

…

Combeferre sped into the parking lot of the ER just behind the ambulance. He stopped his car diagonally across three parking spaces, ignoring the lines completely, ripped out the key, and burst out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. He ran toward the ambulance and got there as the backdoors were opening and the paramedics were climbing out, taking out a stretcher and passing it into the hands of the doctors already waiting for them outside. So many people were gathered around, and Combeferre could not clearly see the person lying on the stretcher.

His heart pounding frantically in his chest, feeling as if this was all a dream, he hurried forward. He plunged into the panic, this muddle of frantic bodies. His eyes fell upon the stretcher. He saw Enjolras's still body lying unconscious upon it, and the medics were carrying him into the hospital as a corpse is carried to the site of its burial. Combeferre could not know if this man was unconscious or dead.

"Oh, my God…"

How bad was it? Lord, how bad was it!? He could not tell. They had put a white sheet over Enjolras's body, and it covered him from the chest down, hiding most of the damage. Blood was already soaking through the white cloth, turning it dark red.

No body turned their heads even to glance at Combeferre. They rushed Enjolras inside. Pushing the stretcher on wheels, they ran into the hospital, down the stark white corridors, and into on of the room. Combeferre ran with the mass of doctors, and nurses, and paramedics as they raced through the hospital, but when they got to the room, he was not allowed to go in. They brought Enjolras into the room, and Combeferre was left to stand in the hallway, looking helplessly through the doorway. He saw them take out the defibrillator. The door closed between them.

Oh, my God, Combeferre thought, he might have whispered aloud—he was not sure—as he stared at the closed door, unable to see or know what was happening on the other side of it. His heart stopped. His heart stopped! Oh, my God, he's dead! Enjolras is dead.

He did not know how long he had been standing there, staring numbly at the door as if he expected it to open or as if he expected somehow to be able to see though it, straining his ears to hear any sound and listening only to silence, when a nurse finally approached him. She spoke to him in a soft voice, told him to follow her, and she showed him to the waiting room. He found himself in a vast space filled with empty chairs and only a few people: a young man pacing, a woman crying, and a few others whom Combeferre did not look at. He went to the corner of the room and down in a chair beside the window, though which he could see the dark parking lot sheltered by a blanket of stars. They sky was beautiful tonight, peaceful even. How, he wondered, could heaven be so calm, so indifferent, while one of Christ's children was suffering like this? Did the Lord not even care that His child was dying?

He remained sitting in this chair, feeling almost in a daze, in a dream, in shock, numb, empty. He was bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded, his head bowed, and his eyes closed, as if in a position of prayer. He found himself praying. With nothing else to do, no other way to help, no one else to turn to, he turned to the Lord. He prayed. He prayed in agony. He prayed in horror. In desperation, his heart cried out to Jesus. He could feel his soul trembling. His limbs began to tremble as well. Like Christ, whose sweat was like drops of blood as he prayed in the Garden of Gotham on the night he was betrayed by Judas, arrested, beaten, tortured, and the next day crucified.

Lord, God, Jesus Christ, whatever happens tonight, do not let him die. Please, do not take him. Please, please, PLEASE! Do not let my friend, Your child die! He is so young, he is only a boy! Please, don't take him; please, don't take him. Let him live. If someone must die, take me instead, but not Enjolras. Please, do not take Enjolras.

He was in the midst of his prayer, fervent, painful, when he was interrupted. He did not know how long it had been going off when he finally realized that the dim tremor which had been beleaguering him for some time now, but which he had hardly taken note of, was his phone vibration in his pocket. Someone was calling him. Pausing in his prayers, he straightened up and hastily took out his phone. Looking at the screen, he saw that he had several missed called. Joly, Musichetta, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Joly— He did not scroll through the list, and nor did he bother to see who was calling now. He pressed the answer button and raised his phone to his ear. "Hello?" his own voice said flatly, emotionlessly, lifelessly.

"Combeferre?" answered a voice just as void of everything, just as hallow, just as dead. It was Courfeyrac.

"Hey," Combeferre replied automatically. It was as if he was no longer in control of his own, now monotone, vocal cords. His voice was speaking on its own, and he was only listening to it. "Where are you?"

"We're in the ambulance. Grantaire's in the back with the paramedics. We're on our way to the hospital," he said in that same dead voice. They were both as corpses now, bodies living without souls, alive in flesh but dead in spirit. "Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital. In the waiting room. I'm waiting."

"Alright."

There was a pause.

"How is Grantaire?"

"He's got bad burns on his arms. He has a concussion that they think is pretty bad, and he hurt his neck. They're going to do x-rays when we get there."

A heavy silence feel between them. They both knew what had to be asked next, but Courfeyrac was afraid to ask, and Combeferre was afraid to answer. Yet, they could not avoid it.

"How is Enjolras?" Courfeyrac said numbly.

Combeferre gritted his teeth. He did not know what to say. "I don't know," he forced himself to reply at last. "They took him back as soon as we got here, and I have not heard a thing yet."

"Did he look bad?"

"I could not tell how bad it was. He was unconscious when they took him out of the ambulance. He was covered with a sheet from the chest down. I could not see how bad he was hurt, but there was blood on the sheet."

"God."

Combeferre hesitated, unsure if he should tell Courfeyrac any more. Deciding at last that he had a right to know, he said torpidly, "I think his heart stopped."

For a moment, silence was the only reply from the other end of the phone. Very slowly, Courfeyrac finally echoed, "His heart stopped?"

"I think so," Combeferre muttered miserably. Each time he said it, it became more difficult, more painful. "I saw them getting out the defibrillator."

"What's that?" ask Courfeyrac, who was not a medical student like Combeferre and Joly but a law student like Marius and Enjolras.

"You know that machine they use to send an electrical current through someone's chest when his heart stops?"

Courfeyrac was quiet for a moment. At last, he spoke emptily, "I've seen that in movies."

"Yeah."

"They used that on Enjolras?" Combeferre heard a note of fear come into Courfeyrac's lifeless voice.

"I saw the doctors getting it ready, so I would think so. Unless it was only precautionary."

"Jesus." There was a pause, and Courfeyrac said abruptly, "Nobody has told you anything since you got there?"

"Not a word."

"Are the doctors still in the room with Enjolras?"

"That door has not opened since they brought him in."

"Hell."

"How far are you from the hospital? When will you be here?"

"Only a few minutes now."

"Alright then. I'll see you soon. I'm in the ER, by the way."

"Alright. See you. Bye."

"Bye."

He hung up.

It was perhaps five minutes later when the ambulance reached the hospital. There were people waiting for them in the parking lot with a wheelchair, but Grantaire said he didn't need it. They walked him inside, Courfeyrac by Grantaire's side. They took Grantaire straight back into room—the wounds on his arms were bad, they said, and they might require surgery—and Courfeyrac found his way into the waiting room. He saw Combeferre sitting in the corner, bent over in prayer once more. Without a word, he went to him and sat down beside him.

Combeferre lifted his head. He was not surprised when he saw it was Courfeyrac sitting beside him. He was glad. Even if it did no good, even if neither of them could do anything to help Enjolras, he was glad to have his friend by his side.

They did not speak. There was nothing to say. Without a word, Combeferre returned to his prayer, and before long Courfeyrac was doing the same. They remain like this, praying side by side, until Courfeyrac's cell phone buzzed, and he withdrew it from his pocket. "It's Joly," he said aloud without looking at Combeferre. "I suppose we should tell them all what's going on."

Combeferre nodded. "Yes."

He answered. "Hello? Hey, Joly. Yeah, it's Courfeyrac." He was speaking the same way he had when he was on the phone with Combeferre: in a slow, calm voice, an emotionless tone, distantly, emptily, like one who is in shock and cannot quite grasp the things he sees right before his eyes.

"We found them.

"Yeah, there was an accident.

"Grantaire and Enjolras.

"Yeah, it was Enjolras. He hit Enjolras… Yeah."

Only somewhat muffled by the phone, Combeferre could hear Joly's panicked and terrified voice scream, "Oh, my God! Good Lord! How bad was it!?"

"Bad. The car caught on fire. Grantaire said Enjolras was trapped inside, and he couldn't get him out until the firemen got there."

Combeferre could hear Joly exclaim something, but he could not make out what he said. He was not listening anyway.

"Yeah," said Courfeyrac a moment later.

"I'm at the hospital.

"Combeferre is here too, yeah. We're in the waiting room.

"The doctors took them back. Grantaire is not hurt too bad. He's got some bad burns on his arms. He has a concussion, and he hurt his neck, but he will be alright. Enjolras?" He fell silent. "We don't know about Enjolras. Combeferre said he was unconscious when the ambulance got here. They took him into the back, and we haven't heard anything since.

"Yeah.

"Yup.

"We don't know.

"We don't know that either.

"Yes.

"Alright then.

"I'll call you if we hear anything.

"Alright. See you when you get here.

"Bye."

He hung up.

Quiet resumed for several seconds. "Joly is freaking out," Courfeyrac said. His voice was so calm. Had one heard these two men speaking, he never would have begun to speculate that they were in any catastrophe like they were enduring. He never would have guess that two of their best friends—one at least if not two—were in danger of dying. It was the shock of it all, Combeferre remembered thinking numbly. Right now, they were both shocked, and that dulled the pain, the reality of it all. The reality as well as the pain would hit later. It would hit them full force.

"Of course he is," Combeferre answered just as calmly, just as softly. For a strange, bizarre reason that not even he could begin to fathom, he added a half-hearted joke, "His hypochondria would allow nothing else." Why was he joking? Why on earth, in heaven, or hell was he joking now, now when his best friend's life was at stake, perhaps already lost? Because he was terrified. He was terrified of what was happening, and he could not bear to face it. He could not face the truth. He could not face this hideous, horrific, hellish, reality, and so he attempted to make that monstrous beast—reality, that is—less. He tried to make it less, easier to bear with a joke.

Courfeyrac only grunted in agreement.

"Is he coming here?" Combeferre asked, turning to look at Courfeyrac.

He nodded. "Joly and Musichetta both. Bossuet too. They're going to call Bahorel and tell him what is happening, so he might come as well."

"Should we call Marius?"

Courfeyrac, Marius's best friend, knew he would be the one who ended having to tell Marius. He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's wait to see if we hear anything from the doctors."

Combeferre thought Marius ought to know now; he had a right to know. Nonetheless, he nodded, and the question was settled. He supposed they would tell Jehan and Feuilly whenever they told Marius. They spoke no more of it.

They heard nothing. They heard nothing from the doctors. They heard nothing from anyone. Alone and forgotten, they continued to wait. Twenty minutes later, Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet rushed into the Emergency Room. They were directed into the waiting room, where they found Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Musichetta hugged Courfeyrac. Joly went straight to Combeferre—they were in the same medical classes and they interned together at a local hospital; they had become close friends—and they immediately began speaking in hushed voices. Bossuet paced the room. Bahorel got there a few minutes later, and he gave Bossuet someone to talk to. Talking was better than nothing. Anything was better than nothing. Anything to get their minds off of this cursed waiting! Waiting was torture.

At least an hour, going on two, had gone by. It was nearing four o'clock in the morning. They were all seated now. They were not talking anymore. It was silent, except for distant sounds or voices that had nothing to do with them. Some of them—all of them—were praying. Many of them were sleeping—at least, many of them were trying to sleep, closing their eyes and resting, but not really falling asleep.

"Monsieur Courfeyrac?"

All of them looked up at once, some of them rising to their feet, and their full attention was fixed on the young nurse they saw before them.

"Yes?" Courfeyrac replied at once, hastily getting to his feet.

Grantaire's injures were not as bad as they could have been, she told them. Nothing had been broken or fractured. He did, as they had confirmed before, have a bad concussion, and there were "substantial" burn on his arms, but it would not require surgery. The doctors had already treated him, and now they were running test, doing blood work. In other words, Courfeyrac thought grimly, they would soon secure documented records, congregate numbers, of the high alcohol concentration in his blood, and this case wound go from the hospital to the courthouse.

"Can I see him now?" Courfeyrac asked when the nurse had finished telling him all of this.

"He does not wish to see anybody," she replied, shaking her head.

Courfeyrac fell silent. The nurse wished them thoughts and prayers and left them. Courfeyrac sat down.

Another hour passed with nothing. No news. No information. Nothing. At last, when someone came, it was not a nurse. It was a surgeon.

"Monsieur Combeferre?" he man said softly as he approached the chair the young student was seated in.

Combeferre's heart faltered. "Yes?" he answered, rising to his feet, reacting like a soldier who has been called on by his commander and is ready to take orders.

"You are Enjolras's friend?" he asked.

"Yes."

"May I have a word with you in private?"

"Of course."

He turned his back on them all and walked across the room. Combeferre hurried after him. He followed him to a solitary corner, where the man finally turned to address him. "Monsieur..." he began slowly. His voice was solemn, heavy, grave. It possessed that dreadful, ominous tone that told Combeferre he was about to hear something very bad. Something terrible.