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Notes: Hi! This is Chapter 7 of "Airplanes & Hospitals." I apologize for the slightly shorter length than is usual, but I figured I would post what I have until I can find the time to write the rest. Thank you to anyone and everyone who has reviewed and/or read this story so far—you keep me going!

Disclaimer: ER belongs to the knuckle-heads over at NBC.

"Neela! What's going on?" Ray repeated his request in a more urgent, slightly annoyed tone than he had used before. The knowing look in Neela's eye scared him. He had seen it in his terminal patients many times before, but he never thought that such an image would be reflected in her gaze. It was knowledge of the truth he saw and only then did he understand that something was horribly wrong.

The blaring sirens of the ambulance and subsequent footsteps of paramedics saved Neela from having to utter the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

Kneeling on the ground and directing his question to no one in particular, the sandy-haired EMT said, "How long has he been out?" while simultaneously checking Jamail's vital signs. The taller of the two paramedics was already busy wheeling the gurney toward the crowd.

Neela responded almost robotically, "Fifteen minutes." She hadn't taken her eyes off Jamail, fearing that the minute she did so he would somehow slip away. His rhythmically weak pulse was all that reminded Neela that he was still within her grasp.

"Do you know if he's on any medication? Does he have any medical conditions?" Jamail's body was covered in lines hooked up to various monitors, unaware that the wires he had so hated being chained to were once again contriving to tie him down.

Does he have any medical conditions? The words seemed to ring endlessly in Neela's head. "He…he has an inoperable brain tumor. He's not taking any medication." And at those last words, Neela slowly turned her eyes away from her brother to look the EMT dead in the face. "He's only 14."

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Ray was pacing up and down the corridor of the ICU, intermittently running his fingers through his hair every five minutes until his hands became sticky with gel. He didn't know why he was pacing, only that it was the single thing he could do without feeling like his heart was going to jump out of his chest.

The initial shock of hearing Neela say the words 'inoperable brain tumor' had prevented Ray from actually comprehending the meaning behind them. In his mind, those words meant 'terminal illness,' but such a hollow and aloof phrase was used not because doctors like Ray didn't care for their patients; it was a defense mechanism, a detachment device. As the seemingly endless moments passed while Jamail had been placed on the gurney—his T-shirt torn and wires protruding from every corner of his bare chest—the flicker of truth he had seen in Neela's eyes finally began to reveal itself. 'Terminal illness' had turned into 'Jay is dying.'

It was at that exact moment, the immediate realization that his friend—Neela's brother—was fighting an uphill battle—that Ray was plunged into an anxiety attack on the scale of the powerfully intense ones he had experienced so often ten years ago. He was gasping for air, his hand clutching at his chest at the throbbing rapidity of his heartbeat. Neela was already in the ambulance truck with Jamail, unaware that the wound she had helped heal was now ripped open for everyone to see. Morris and Abby had helped Ray calm down enough to slow his breathing and were subsequently barred from asking any questions by Ray's insistently firm "I'm fine."

And now here he was, pacing up and down the hallway, the sound of his shoes echoing off the walls as if he was the only one in the entire hospital who couldn't sit still. It was three o'clock in the morning and Neela was sitting next to her brother's bed in the ICU, her eyes refusing to move an inch from his seemingly sleeping form in front of her. Abby and Sam had stayed until midnight, each of them in turn asking Neela if she needed anything before they went home. Morris and Pratt took turns attempting to reassure Neela that the chance of Jamail coming out of his coma was good, that there was hope. Luka had given Neela's shoulder a quick squeeze and said all that he wanted to say with that simple gesture. And Ray? All Ray could do was pray that every time he passed Neela sitting quietly in Jay's room, he didn't sink into the darkness of another attack. What was worse, the roaring in his ears and the voice that had haunted him less than a week ago was now louder than ever.

I hate being sick, Ray. It's like I can't do anything—I can't play sports, I can't hang out with my friends—without feeling like something's going to happen.

Nothing's going to happen, Josh, you don't have to be scared all the time. I mean, we hang out and nothing's ever happened, right?

Yeah but, I feel okay when I'm with you—you don't look at me with that pathetic look of pity in your eyes like Dad does.

Listen, you're going to be fine, alright? You can do whatever you want to, don't listen to Dad…hey, you never showed me your new-and-improved free throw shot. Did all my hard work pay off?

YOUR hard work? I busted my balls to get it perfect while you stood over my shoulder and yelled "What the hell was that?" every five seconds! 'YOUR hard work' my butt.

As the roaring faded away, Ray could feel his heart begin to race yet again and the air swiftly leave his lungs. Not wanting to make a scene in the hallway, he quickly walked to the doctor's lounge and shut the door behind him. Placing one hand against the back of the door and the other on his chest, Ray felt his body involuntarily bend over. The attack lasted as long as usual, his breathing having calmed to an almost normal level within a few minutes. But there was one difference: Ray straightened to find that his face was wet with tears.

The overwhelming sense of desperation he felt left him with a pain in his soul that was unfathomable; he had lost one brother only to find out that he was about to lose another. And just as he had failed to provide the comfort that his mother had needed in order to feel that all was not lost, Ray had seemingly now failed to provide that same comfort to Neela. He could do nothing but let the tears stream down his face as sorrow mixed with regret in a bottomless pool.

It was at this moment that Chuny gently opened the door. "Ray?"

He cleared his throat and answered without lifting his head, "Yeah…"

"…I tried to give these to Neela but she didn't…I thought maybe you could take them for her? It's Jamail's jacket and wallet…"

"Uh yeah, you can leave it on the table, I'll get it." Ray quickly wiped his face while Chuny turned to place Jamail's belongings on the small table in the lounge. As she stood opposite him again, Ray could see from the look on her face that there was more she intended to say.

"These fell out of his jacket…one of them is addressed to you." Chuny held the two white envelopes out to Ray, her gaze falling over his disheveled state. He looked up, and seeing Chuny's hand reaching out to him, Ray took the envelopes with a mixture of confusion and trepidation. He was still standing fixed to his spot when the sound of the door closing behind Chuny brought him out of his state of disorientation.

Without a thought, Ray began to gently tear open the envelope on which his name was so uniquely written.

Dear Ray,

I know what you're probably thinking: a letter? Are you kidding? Yeah well, what can I say, I'm a dork. There are some things that are better said on paper than spoken out loud, and if I don't write you a letter they may never get spoken at all.

So first things first: there are some things about Neela you need to know. Now don't get scared, it's nothing bad—just a few tips that might make your life a bit…easier.

1. If she's yelling at you, NEVER tell her to calm down. It will only infuriate her and cause more yelling, so just look at her and pretend you're listening. (An occasional nod of the head helps, too.) When she's all out of things to say, she'll either walk off or she'll feel so bad for yelling at you that she'll apologize on the spot. Either way, you'll be off the hook by the next morning.

2. If you find her staring at you with her eyebrows furrowed, that means she wants to say something but keeps changing her mind about whether to say it or not. Sometimes she'll bite her lip, too—that means whatever she wants to say is particularly important. It helps if you ask her what's on her mind; she'll spill her beans in no time.

3. You've probably noticed by now that when she cries she covers her face with her hands. She absolutely hates it when people see her cry because she hates feeling weak and not being in control of her emotions. The only thing you can do is hold her—don't look at her, don't say anything, just hug her and she'll be fine. If you try to do anything else, she'll just end up yelling at you.

4. Her favorite color is dark blue. Favorite flowers are lilies. Favorite animal is a turtle. I have no idea how that helps, but maybe someday it'll come in handy.

5. And now here's THE SECRET: just smile at her. I swear, all you have to do is randomly smile at her throughout the day and she turns into a much nicer person. And she makes better tea when she's smiling…don't ask me how I know that.

Okay, I hope that helps. Now to other things…

When I said that Neela talks about you all the time, I meant it. And now I see why. I don't mean to get all sappy, but this week has been so much fun that I have to say I hope I miss my flight tomorrow! Thanks for everything. It's nice having a sister, but I'm glad I know what it's like to have a brother, too.

I don't know if Neela has told you what's going on yet, but please forgive me for not telling you myself—I feel like I've caused so many people pain that I didn't want to add you to the list. I feel better knowing that you'll be there for her when it happens. Stay strong for her, okay? (Sorry, this is turning into a really depressing letter…)

Alright, I think I'm going to stop here before the violin players start playing their wretchedly sad music…how about something by The Clash?

I'll be seeing you,

Jay