I'm sorry for not updating this in, like, forever and ever amen. Have I lost some readers? (Probably!) I've been insanely preoccupied; only now, after volunteering at my mom's job (she takes care of disabled people), going to the dentist, helping my parents install a new dryer, getting sick with flu, and of course, worrying about college financial issues, have I managed to post chapter 16. :)

I realize that chapter 15 took people by surprise…which I actually intended, so I'm pleased. Keep in mind that the story is wrapping up, so everything from here on out is pretty much the climax. I think this chapter will catch people off guard too. :) For one thing, it goes further into the mind of Dr. Maps. Please take into account that, overall, the last part of this chapter is the most important part! What George does will be crucial later on!

Have fun reading the chapter! And please let me know what you think! ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own The Suite Life series.

When Cody managed to come to, the first thing he saw was Jenny Kroft staring down at him with a tear-streaked face and flushed eyes. Her lips were moving and he could hear her voice reverberating in his ears, but he could not, for the life of him, make out her words. He listened hard, drowning out the irksome shriek of the ambulance's siren as it sped through town, but was still unable to decipher what she was saying.

She was caressing his face with a cool, damp cloth, and he took comfort in that—in the soothing sensation of coldness against his burning skin.

Though he knew he was alive and awake, and as existent as he'd always been, he felt strangely detached from his surroundings. Enshrouded by a miasma of dimly-lit reality. His body felt like dead weight; his arms were burdens at his sides, his stomach and chest were hollow. He was there but not there. Like a phantom.

But…this can't be me, he denied. Not this shell of a person lying here, limp and useless as a corpse. Just moments ago everything was different. I was different. I was saving Jenny and letting my rage take over. Knowing myself in a way that I've never known myself before. Feeling strong, and unstoppable.

And now…in the blink of an eye, with the prick of a fucking little needle…I'm reduced to this! A breathing corpse! I might as well be in a coma!

For a moment, he thought maybe he was in a coma, but his mind quickly contradicted that. He knew he was conscious. He felt too animate—too present—to be otherwise. Plus, he couldn't argue against what was right there in front of him: Jenny at his side, touching a cloth to his head.

He opened his mouth to speak to her, but nothing came out except drool. He hadn't realized until now that his mouth was overflowing with saliva. Jenny wadded up the cloth and used it to wipe the dribble from his chin. She turned to set it down somewhere out of his sight, and then turned back and looked at him. She stared at him for what seemed like five whole minutes. Taking him in, her face indicating contemplation. Fresh tears filled her eyes; he watched, mutely, as they glided down her cheek bones and halted at her jaw line, knowing that they were for him. A twinge of guilt nudged at him and he wanted so badly to tell her he was sorry for making her cry.

But then, as though struck by a revelation, he was suddenly hit with the overwhelming gravity of the situation—someone he hardly knew was crying for him. Never would he have expected something like that. He was nobody. Nobody special, anyway. He understood loved ones like Zack, and his parents, and Bailey crying for him…but not people like Jenny. People he didn't even know beyond a profession.

He tried again to speak, but failed and gave up. So he looked at her, speaking to her with his eyes. Thanking her—for taking care of him, and for treating him nicely ever since he came to Fairoaks, and for crying over him now…and for trying to stop that male nurse from sedating him in the first place. Even though he was suffering the consequences, the fact that she'd been too late didn't matter to him; what was important was that she'd tried.

After a while, he felt the strong urge to swallow, but due to drug-induced inertia, couldn't seem to force any saliva down his throat. He attempted several times, but then thought, to hell with it, and laid back in discomfort.

And then later, he started to feel a dull pain in the small of his back. He had no idea where it came from and couldn't muster enough strength to adjust his position in the stretcher. Having to endure it, he gave Jenny a pleading look, hoping against fateful hope that she would get the hint that he was in need of her assistance.

He saw her lips move again. This time more frantically. She began to run her fingers through his hair and that helped. Not much, but enough for him to ignore the ache and relax.

He closed his eyes and let his mind meander through the past. In particularly, the recent past. He thought about the incident between Jenny and Mr. Willner—how sporadic it had been, and how, just moments prior, he and Dr. Maps had established a truce. He thought very deeply about this truce…about its outcome. They had both decided that Cody wasn't crazy, but selfish, and that he never once belonged in Fairoaks. Poor guy, Cody thought sympathetically. His decision to send me to that place will haunt him until the day he dies…and he can't afford to be haunted anymore. The man's already got enough ghosts in his closet with what happened to his brother. He doesn't need regrets about me in addition.

I bet he'd freak if he saw me at the hospital.

…

"Easy there. Now this won't hurt a bit." Dr. Maps approached the frightened little girl gradually and bent down to her level, smiling in reassurance as he held up a pair of small scissors and a pair of forceps.

"What are those for?" she asked, eyeing them nervously.

"For taking out your stitches," he answered. "Now I'm going to need you to hold out your arm for me, okay? Can you do that?"

The girl flashed him an I-can-but-I-won't sort of look and quickly withdrew her arm. Cleaning the wound with the antiseptic was one thing, but scissors were different—they meant cutting. There was no way. Her mother, upon whose lap she was sitting, gave her a little nudge in the back for encouragement and said, "Go on, sweetheart. You heard the doctor. Hold out your arm."

She shook her head vigorously.

Her mother nudged her again. "Annie! The doctor told you it wouldn't hurt, so there's nothing to be afraid of. Just hold out your arm and it'll all be over."

She shook her head again, this time more vigorously, and started whimpering.

"Annie, honey, I don't have all day. Those stitches need to come out sometime, and if you don't hold out your hand by yourself, I'm going to have to hold it out for you. Now which is it going to be?"

Annie's whimpering increased. She cradled her stitched arm against her chest and buried her face into her mother's shoulder.

Dr. Maps felt a pang of sympathy envelope his heart. He loved children but often found it difficult to operate on them because of how scared they became of him. In their minds, doctors were bad guys. And eight-year-old Annie Minnick was no exception to that rule.

"Annie…" he spoke softly, "I promise you that this won't be painful. I'll have those stitches out faster than you can count to ten."

Annie made no attempt to cooperate.

Dr. Maps tried even harder: "Annie, you're a strong girl. I know you are."

"That's right," her mother chipped in, pulling her untidy hair out of her face and wrapping it around her ear. "You know how you keep telling everyone you're a big girl now? Well, it's time for you to prove that. Show me that you're a big girl."

Slowly—ever so slowly—Annie turned her face away from her mother's shoulder and looked back at Dr. Maps, inquisitively. Searching for any sign of trustworthiness in this supposed enemy. Doubtful, yet also hopeful. Hopeful enough to look in the first place.

Dr. Maps took that as progress and used it. "Yes," he urged. "Show mommy how big of a girl you are. Show mommy you're a brave girl. You're a brave girl, aren't you? Think of what all your friends will say when you tell them you held out your hand all by yourself." He paused, figuring some leverage was in order. "Tell you what—if you do this for me, I'll go down to the cafeteria and get you some ice cream."

That won her over. "Okay," she said, faintly but with resolution. She extended her arm.

Dr. Maps took hold of it with one hand and held the pair of scissors in the other. He felt her arm jerk automatically as he brought the scissors down close to her flesh. "I'm just going to cut the string, Annie," he told her. "But you need to stay still."

The little girl cringed but managed to hold her arm steady. Unable to watch, she turned her face away from the scene. Her mother rubbed her shoulder affectionately and she drew comfort from her touch.

There were six stitches in all. One by one, Dr. Maps snipped their bound threads in half. Exposing a recently-healed gash. After he was done, he put the scissors down and picked up the forceps. He could hear Annie catch her breath at the sensation of the pincers pulling on one of the loose threads. "It's alright, Annie," he said tenderly. "Just keep holding still."

He gave a single tug and the thread came out. That was one. He placed the extracted thread down, and then pulled out another one. That was two. He kept going until all six were out. The last one was a little tougher because the thread was longer, and Annie yelped a little, but he managed to pull it out without too much difficulty. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "That was the last one. You're done."

Annie looked at him in surprise. "I'm done?"

Dr. Maps nodded. "Yes ma'am, you're done. I just need to wash it one more time, but that's it. Will you let me do that?"

Annie nodded enthusiastically, her eyes brightening at the notion of the hard part being over.

Dr. Maps went to the other end of the room to retrieve the antiseptic cleaner, which was lying on the counter top next to the sink, as well as a cotton ball. When he was equipped with both, he walked over to Annie and asked her to hold out her arm again. This time, she obeyed without any hassle.

It only took around four seconds to clean the wound. "There," Dr. Maps said when he had finished. "Now all that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Annie shrugged. "I guess not."

Dr. Maps had to giggle. She was so cute. "Well, then I guess that's good."

"Can I go now?" She seemed eager to leave. Naturally. What kid liked being in a hospital?

"Well that depends," Dr. Maps said with a smirk. "Do you still want your ice cream?"

"Yeah!"

"Then no, you can't go just yet." Dr. Maps winked at her. Then he looked up at her mother. "Is it alright if you guys stay here for a few minutes while I run down to the cafeteria real quick?"

"Sure," her mother replied.

Dr. Maps took off his gloves and tossed them into the trash can next to the bed. "I'll be right back," he told Annie with a confident smile as he strolled out of the room. Then he was gone. He used the nearest elevator to go down to the cafeteria, stopping along the way at a restroom and going inside to pee. When he was finished and had washed his hands, he quickly inspected himself in the mirror, mentally accusing himself of pulling too many 12-hour and 16-hour shifts, and then walked out.

The ice cream bar in the cafeteria was about to close but Dr. Maps made it in time to buy a double scoop of chocolate fudge in a cone. The man behind the counter, who Dr. Maps only knew as "Bill," smiled at him in understanding of the occasion. "Another little tyke, eh?" he asked.

Dr. Maps grinned in response and nodded.

"You keep bribing kids with ice cream, pretty soon I'm gonna sell out. Course I ain't too worried about that, so long as I'm gettin' paid."

"I wouldn't exactly call it bribing," Dr. Maps said defensively, though he knew perfectly well that it was. "I prefer to think of it as encouragement."

Bill raised an eyebrow, but resumed his voyeuristic smile. "Think of it however you will. Back in my day, a bribe was a bribe. But you know, you got nothin' to be ashamed of. You do what you can for those younguns. Hell, most parents even bribe their kids; it's the only way to get 'em to do shit." He handed Dr. Maps the ice cream cone. "Here ya go."

"Thanks Bill," Dr. Maps said.

He gave Bill a tip and then went back to the elevator. On the way up, he thought about what Bill had said and thought to himself, Well, whatever works.

Annie was thrilled when she received her treat. As soon as the cone was in her hands, her tongue was gliding all over it. Lapping it up like a dehydrated dog.

"Slow down, Annie!" her mother demanded. Then she gestured over toward Dr. Maps. "Now what do you say to the nice doctor?"

"Thank you!" burbled Annie through a mouth full of melting ice cream.

"You're very welcome, young lady," Dr. Maps replied kindly.

"Okay Annie, I think it's time for you and me to hit the road," Annie's mother remarked. "Your father will be home in a few hours and I promised him I'd have dinner ready by the time he came in." Annie hopped up off her mother's lap and her mother stood up behind her, taking her by the hand. "Thanks again, Dr. Maps," she said, acknowledging the doctor. "I know usually you don't deal with minor things like stitches, but Annie doesn't like going to the health clinic down town. She doesn't like the people there. When we told her about having to get her stitches taken out, she specifically asked for you."

Dr. Maps felt his heart swell to twice its size. "That's very flattering, Mrs. Minnick," he stated. "Thank you for bringing her. I assure you, it was no problem at all. I'm always happy to see Annie."

He shared a mutual smile with Annie's mother—a warm smile of gratitude—before the woman turned her attention back toward her daughter, who now had a chocolate beard dripping down her chin, and said, "Okay dear, let's go get you cleaned up and in the car."

Then she and Annie left, leaving Dr. Maps in the operating room by himself. Feeling suddenly fatigued, he collapsed onto the bed and sat with his elbows on his knees for a long time—thinking. Thinking about his day and all it had thrown at him: a bewildering visit to Fairoaks that had shattered his hope of Cody getting better through psychology (Dr. Thompson was a fake if he'd ever seen one); a talk with Cody that had been pleasant yet unnerving, with him having to bring up the painful memory of his little brother's death; a call from his ex-wife who thought it necessary to remind him of his son's 14th birthday two weeks in advance; and now this—a wave of exhaustion.

Today has certainly been an interesting day, he mused. To say the least. And for a surgeon, that is saying something.

He immediately started to think of Cody—his miracle patient. The one who brought back a sense of belief into him…a belief in things beyond the visible and tangible. A belief in things that science had no name or theory for. Not exactly a belief in God, but a belief in unexplained phenomena for sure.

Cody gave him back his faith…which he had lost many years ago, on the day he found out his brother wasn't coming home.

Thinking about Cody soon led to recalling what Dr. Thompson had said about him—that he was insolent, and insufferable, and that he had some sort of a vendetta against him.

Dr. Maps shook his head, trying to dislodge the surge of anger that was assembling itself within him. How could anyone say such things about Cody? He has his faults, just like anyone…but insolent? Insufferable? Heavens no! Despite his inner turmoil and unwillingness to embrace life, he seems like a genuinely sweet boy. Just a little lost is all. Just a little on the wrong track.

And to set him on the right track, I sent him to Dr. Thompson. Well, to Fairoaks actually. Dr. Thompson's being his therapist had nothing to do with me. But…at the end of the day…what does it matter? I might as well have tied his hands and forced him into that man's office.

Dr. Maps felt his eyes well. I handed him over to a lunatic, when I probably could have helped him myself. He sucked in a deep breath of fresh, chemical-smelling air. Pulling himself together. Tomorrow I'm going to call his brother, Zack. I'm going to tell him about my visit…tell him that he was right.

And that I'm so, so unbelievably sorry.

After a while, Dr. Maps could no longer bear to think about Cody…or about Fairoaks. So he thought about Annie and the rewarding fact that she had asked for him specifically to remove her stitches; he thought, too, about how her mother had chosen to drive all the way to the hospital rather than the health clinic to make her daughter happy, even though the clinic was closer to where they lived.

Annie was rather an unfortunate little girl; she'd been born prematurely with a heart defect and had underwent a series of four major surgeries throughout her eight years of life—all of which Dr. Maps had presided over. She was shy, and for the most part hesitant, but she was also bright-eyed and full of optimism. With so many ideas for what she would do when she grew up. All her shortcomings considered, she was a normal child. She despised going to the hospital, especially since she'd spent way more than her fair share of time there. However, she always preferred going there than to the health clinic, where the staff consisted mostly of CNA-in-training teenagers and young adults who hadn't the faintest idea how to deal with children.

Even though being a doctor made him an enemy, Annie wanted him over any other health care professional. Even when it came to small operations that surgeons like him rarely performed.

Dr. Maps was comforted by that.

He wasn't at ease for long. Just minutes following his thoughts of Annie and her misfortunes, there came a lady's voice on the intercom: "Dr. Maps," it said indifferently, though he knew a person was speaking, "please report to room two-fifteen B immediately." Then it repeated itself: "Dr. Maps, please report to room two-fifteen B…immediately." The last "immediately" surprised him.

He jumped off the bed and bolted out the door. Room 215 B was an elevator ride down to the next floor, as well as two hallways, a staff lounge, and a waiting room away. He ran as fast as he could, slamming into the elevator so fast he hit its back wall. When he was one floor below and the doors opened, he dashed out and rushed down the first hallway, making a sharp right turn at the end. He past the staff lounge and headed, from there, toward the second hallway. By the time he reached the end of that and found the room, he was out of breath but still determined.

Part of him knew, even before opening the door and sprinting inside, that it was Cody who'd been brought in. Nevertheless, when he actually saw him, his heart sank.

…

Zack slammed his foot against the gas pedal, sending his car roaring down the street. He was going way over the speed limit and kept telling himself to slow down (with his luck there'd be a cop behind him at any minute), but he never did. The more his brain told his foot to ease up off the gas, the harder his foot pressed. It was as if his body was defying his better judgment. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Thank God, he thought. He couldn't afford to get pulled over right now.

Aside from that small measure of relief, however, he was fuming. The old Zack was in control, but fury possessed him completely. A searing fury that wouldn't die down no matter how much he told himself to be rational.

His mind kept replaying what had happened after he and Bailey had met his father outside the Tipton. His father's voice had been feathery—noticeably on the verge of breaking into sobs—as he'd given them the news: "Cody was in a fight."

Bailey had gasped horribly, and Zack had demanded to know what kind of a fight.

"A physical fight," his father had replied dismally. "And he was hurt. Two nurses were involved. The lady who called—she said that one of the nurses told her it wasn't Cody's fault; this patient was left alone and he attacked her. Cody was just trying to help." He paused. "He got sedated for it."

Bailey had put her hands over her mouth. "Oh my God!" she'd gasped.

"But he's okay, though, right?" Zack had asked determinedly. "Just a few scrapes, that's all…right?" Cody had to be okay. He just had to. He wouldn't leave him like this—not after they'd been through so much.

Kurt had glanced back down at his cell phone, looking at it as though he wondered if it was even real. If any of this was real. And hoping, with every bone in his body, that it wasn't. "The whole thing was just a misunderstanding!" he spat. "And that's what sucks the most about it. It was all just a big motherfuckin' mistake! My Cody didn't do anything wrong! Fuck, he was trying to help somebody! Last time I checked, that was a good thing! He didn't deserve to get beat to the ground by some dipshit nurse who only saw half the fight and then shot up with fucking Thorazine! I mean, where does it say that the innocent party gets the punishment, huh?"

Zack had been able to tell that Kurt was pissed—that he was about to lose it completely. And he could understand why. After Cody tried to kill himself, Kurt didn't know what to do; it's not every day that a father has to come to terms with his brilliant son's arcane disregard for life. Kurt had. He'd panicked, and paced back and forth, and chain-smoked, all the while staying in a constant state of puzzlement and devastation. And now, he was faced with this—a blunder that was not Cody's fault but had become his problem.

And a bad problem at that.

"They had to call an ambulance, you know?" Kurt had said next. He'd gulped and winced at his sore throat. "Cause with Cody's weak heart…who knows what the Thorazine…what the Thorazine will…what that damn drug will…" He couldn't finish.

He didn't have to. As soon as those last words escaped his mouth, Zack had darted from the entrance of the Tipton, through the parking lot, and got back into his car. Without saying anything as to where he was going or what he planned to do. He'd practically floored the gas and sent the vehicle squealing down the street, leaving skid marks.

They probably think I'm on my way to the hospital, Zack thought while still trying desperately to control his speed.

But that wasn't where he was going.

He almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. Where he was going, no one would ever guess. They'd think the first place he'd head to would be wherever Cody was…which would normally have been true, but this was far from a normal circumstance.

Instead of going on the bypass, which would take him almost directly to the hospital, he went straight—down the long, curvy road where Fairoaks Asylum stood smack-dab in the middle of town, about ten miles or so before the road and the end of the bypass intersected.

Only one thing was on his mind. Well, two things actually. However, one—Cody—would be taken care of. The other had to be dealt with personally.

Fairoaks Asylum needs a little taste of its own medicine.

And who better to give it to them than me, Cody's twin brother?

…

Cody awoke a second time to find himself strapped to a hospital bed. His first thought: Not again! But his next thought was completely different—a 180-degree flip of his feelings. He could feel, on some intuitive level, the needles in the veins and the fluids being pumped into his body. He didn't know what they were, but they gave him the sensation of flying.

Flying…while detained on a bed. Pretty spectacular.

He felt weightless, like a bird. He instantly remembered the bird from the story he'd told Dr. Thompson and thought for a second that maybe he became that bird. Can't let myself freeze to death…can't let myself freeze to death… Got to watch out for the cat!

The cat was lurking somewhere beneath him, but he didn't have to worry about that because he was flying. He was soaring. He was far away, from everything and everyone. From every restraint known to man. Consoled by his detachment.

He wasn't aware that his solid body was being drained by pumps and pipes connected to his skin, or that strangers were scurrying around him, paying special attention to his chest, because he didn't need to know. He was free. His eyes started to close, and then reopen, and do the same thing over and over again. In an effortless pattern: close, open, close, open, close, open…it was as if they had a personality all their own and couldn't make a decision. One moment, they wanted to take in all that was happening; then the next, they begged for closure and darkness.

Nothing could keep them closed, however, once he saw the light.

The light shimmered above him, like a light bulb about to die out, but then blasted him, full-throttle, in the face. A mass of white, ember, and gold. Nearly blinding him, but at the same time making him so hopeful. It was beyond words. An experience in itself. Cody felt whole. At peace. The light was so bright that he could feel it shining in every piece of his being, uplifting him like a current, letting him float on top of it.

He heard a voice whisper. Only…perhaps it didn't whisper. Perhaps it spoke, loud and clear but sounded like a whisper. He didn't care though; he heard it well enough: "Cody? Can you hear me? Blink your eyes if you can hear me."

Cody didn't want to do anything with his eyes except stare at the light. But he figured if he didn't blink sooner or later, whoever had spoken would assume that he was deaf. Or dead. One or the other.

So he blinked.

Once.

The speaker sighed and sounded relieved when they spoke again: "Thank you! Jesus Christ, thank you!"

Shortly thereafter, another voice chimed in—a lighter, more high-pitched voice. "Do you think we can take him off the IVs now?"

The initial voice replied. "Yes, I think so."

Moments later, he felt pushes and pulls on his arms and torso. Pinpricks. The needles being removed. At first, Cody was grateful for that, thinking he would have more freedom and could fly longer. But as soon as the fluid stopping dripping into his veins—as soon as the spikes were out of his skin—his light began to fade.

He panicked. Nooooo!

He tried to lift himself back up and fly again, never realizing for one second that he was pressing against the sides of his bed, physically looking as though he had just convulsed. Hands forced him back down, rubbing his face, gripping his shoulders, but he fought against them. He twisted and turned, trying with every ounce of strength he could muster to scream.

Finally, he gave up and lay back down. He started sobbing as the light became dimmer and dimmer, revealing to him a bleak, shadowy world which he knew he could not turn away from. His descent. He felt more hands groping him, more voices murmuring into the fuzz that was his reality; he even thought he felt wet lips leave a kiss on his temple.

He felt as though he was falling backward. Through space and time, he considered, regardless of how overused that phrase is. He was plunging from grace and heading towards—what looked to be—hell. The foreboding land of the murky unknown. The grassland, where the helpless bird can't fly. Where the cat prowls, waiting for prey.

And all the while, his light disappeared.

It kept disappearing until it was gone…and Cody was left in the dark.

…

George had no reason to believe that Cody wouldn't come back. Even after visiting time was over. A number of things could happen between the walk to the visiting room and the walk from it—restroom breaks, meeting up with talkative nurses in the hallway, accidents…any of these and more. So George wasn't alarmed when it was a few minutes past the end of visiting time and Cody still had not been brought back into the room.

He waited for him patiently, using the slow-passing time to examine his fingernails and scratch the dandruff off his scalp. He needed a shower, badly. He'd taken one that morning but was already feeling grimy and gross. During shower time, there had been a scuffle in the stall next to his which had ended in him getting pulled out of the shower for the sake of his safety, without getting the chance to wash his hair. He'd scrubbed his body, thank goodness, but even that didn't make much of a difference now; the heat in the room was causing him to sweat. And stink. Damn it! he thought. I won't get another shower until tomorrow…which means I'm gonna have to sleep in this gunk. Ain't that just peachy?

Once he'd inspected every single one of his fingernails multiple times, he slipped off his socks and began working on his toenails. Which were much nastier. They were uneven and needed to be shortened. A nurse was supposed to clip them weeks ago, but somehow whoever was responsible for doing that had forgotten all about it. Now it probably wouldn't get done for months. Only the suicidal patients—which George was not—got frequent nail clippings. They were to prevent them from scratching at themselves.

Hmm…maybe I could ask Cody to mention me to the nurse whenever he gets his clipping.

After his toenails had all been scrutinized (and grimaced at), he leaned back against the wall up against which his bed was situated and started to hum. Simple tunes at first, but more intricate ones as time sailed by. He closed his eyes and tried to eliminate all thoughts from his head except for those songs. It wasn't hard; he was good at focusing his mind. And music was such a lovely thing to focus on.

George had never told Cody this—or anyone for that matter—but he was quite the fan of classical music. One of his elementary school teachers had introduced him to it and he'd loved it ever since. What he mostly found appealing about it was the lack of lyrics; even the ones that had lyrics, such as Mozart's Requiem, were not dominated by their lyrics—their real power was in their instrumental brilliance. Forcing the listener to feel the song, rather than just hear it. Doing such was art in itself. Equivalent to soul-searching.

He was in the midst of humming Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik when the door to the room was unlocked and opened, revealing a short nurse with red, frizzy hair standing right behind the threshold. She had a solemn look about her, with puckered lips, furrowed eyebrows, and eyes that were so penetratingly sinister they chilled his bones.

He knew who she was. Nurse Helen Richards, or—as some patients liked to call her—Red-Head Richards. The lady of fire, and not just because of her hair; she was an all-around ball of fire. Hot-tempered and sharp-tongued. The first thing George noticed about her, other than her not-so-new grave exterior, was the fact that she was carrying his medication—one cup filled with water and another with a single pill inside. "It's time for your Depakote, George."

George had almost forgotten about his Depakote. "Ah, yeah…so it is."

Nurse Richards walked inside, stood before him, and handed him the cup with the pill in it.

George took it. "So, why do you get the pleasure of bringing it today?" he wondered. "Usually it's the Jenny girl who does."

"You mean Nurse Kroft," Nurse Richards corrected him sternly. "She's not here right now."

"Did she get the day off?"

"No." Nurse Richards sighed heavily. "She rode to the hospital with your roommate."

George was hit with a jolt of profound surprise. "Cody went to the hospital?" he asked, his voice showing far more sympathy than he was used to. "Why?"

"He was in a fight."

George was struck with more surprise. "Did he get the shit beat out of him?" So Mr. I-Have-Secrets was in a fight…and lost. Shit. Tough break. He's no doubt going to need to recover his pride.

Nurse Richards glared at him. "You will not use that kind of language in my presence," she ordered, obviously referring to his use of the word "shit." "Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," George replied quickly, but then went on to ask, "What happened? Who'd he fight with?"

"Another patient," Nurse Richards answered, "but that's not why he was rushed to the hospital." She stopped for a moment, not sure if she should tell him the rest, but then decided to go ahead. "He was rushed to the hospital because a nurse made a miscalculation and injected him with Thorazine…Thorazine that was not intended for him. And in his case—considering how fragile his heart is—who knows what affects that drug will have on him? He could die."

For the first time in he couldn't remember how long, George felt like he was going to throw up. Cody…die? Cody, my roommate…my first real friend…might die? George swallowed and shook his head, trying to stabilize himself and get a grip. He won't die. He's too headstrong for that. He's my boy—the one who sticks it to the man, like me. The fighter. The guy who didn't even go down from a bullet in his chest. "And if…if he does die…" George was almost taken aback by how much it hurt to say that (given that he'd grown accustomed to burying his emotions). "What then?"

Nurse Richards sighed. "Well, hopefully it won't come to that," she declared. "But if it does, I suspect we'll have a lawsuit on our hands. Manslaughter, and negligence. As it is, the nurse who injected him is being fired. That's bad enough…especially since it was an accident. He only saw part of the fight; he thought Cody was the one acting up. He made a wrong call. Getting fired from his job is punishment enough; he sure doesn't need criminal charges to top it off."

George found it interesting how she'd referred to the nurse as a "he." "Wait, was the nurse a man?" he questioned.

Nurse Richards nodded.

Than the patient must have been a dangerous one—a sex offender, probably. They have to be watched by men.

"So…how did he make a miscalculation exactly? What was the fight even about? Do you know? Do you know how it got started?" George couldn't deny that he was genuinely worried. He felt as though he had to get answers. He had to know the truth about what had happened with Cody.

Nurse Richards shook her head, thinking the whole thing over for herself. "Cody just had to be the hero," she said. "Jenny could probably have handled herself, but Cody just had to be a hero."

George knew what she was talking about. He looked down at his feet. Taking all of this in. So the Jenny girl was sexually assaulted. Poor woman. And Cody tried to help her. He tried to save her, and now he might die for it.

No, don't think like that. You already said so yourself, he won't die. He's your first real friend, and he knows that. He wouldn't give up on you…even though everyone else has. He's different. He's Cody Martin—the one who doesn't give up. The one who knows the right thing to do and does it. The one who risked everything to put a sick bastard in his place. The hero.

But that still doesn't explain the miscalculation.

Nurse Richards seemed to have read his last thought. "It was a misunderstanding," she explained. "The nurse thought he saw something when he didn't and…well, everything happened so fast. Cody probably didn't even know what hit him. Nurse Kroft told me that she tried to stop it, but she was too late; he was already sedated." She heaved a breath. "I didn't even hear about it until they'd already sent for an ambulance. Poor girl. I don't think I've ever seen someone cry so much. She kept saying, 'He saved me! He saved me!' It was very distressing."

George nearly smiled at that (even though it felt inappropriate to do so). So he won, after all. A surge of pride coursed through him. Hell yeah. That's my boy, right there.

There was a moment of pure silence in which George continued to stare at his feet and Nurse Richard's eyed him like she wondered if she'd told him too much and should have just said, "Your roommate, Cody Martin, isn't coming back. At least, not for a while."

Eventually, Nurse Richards beckoned toward the cup in his hands. Which still contained the pill.

"Oh…right," George said. He put the edge of the cup to his mouth, leaned back, and let the tablet slide onto his tongue. Then he handed the empty cup back to her in exchange for the one filled with water.

He maneuvered the pill, forcing it under his tongue where it would be safe from the water, and then drank. He gulped the water down in one take. Letting out a loud breath afterward. "I never get tired of water," he said.

"That's good," Nurse Richards responded, "with how much you drink it."

She took the second cup back into her clutches, and then turned toward the door. "Have a good day, George," she told him before walking out of the room.

Then she was gone.

Alone again, George took the pill out from beneath his tongue. He'd never done this before—he'd never gone a day without swallowing his Depakote. Now where should I hide this? he asked himself. There was no trash can in the room. There was no need for one; the patients didn't have anything with them except the clothes on their backs. Pfft…even if there was a trash can, it'd be foolish to hide it there. The nurses would no doubt clean it and look inside.

He looked around. He couldn't hide it beneath his bed because that would pretty much defeat the purpose of his doing this; he most likely wouldn't be able to retrieve it later, unless he hid it close to the perimeter of the bed itself…which would increase the chances of it being discovered.

He thought about it, staring at all parts of the almost-vacant room. Then he looked at the pill wedged between his fingers.

And that was when he thought of it—the perfect hiding place: inside the bed. Not under the sheets because the nurses removed those every other week to get washed, but somewhere else…

In the bed frame.

George crouched at the head of his bed and gently pressed against the mattress, separating it from the metal frame in which it was situated. Once he'd created a wide enough gap for the pill to fit through, he placed it inside, allowing the side of the mattress to fall back into place and squish the pill between it and the frame. Protecting it.

Until later.

There, thought George, with a mixture of dread and tenacity. It won't be long before a have several hidden in there.