I don't own it.

"He was my brother, and he died in my arms because that man decided to kill him. Who's he? Why does he get to decide who lives and who dies?" 19 Minutes

Frank

I started waiting. There was, quite literally, nothing else to do. I couldn't leave, and nothing seemed to be as interesting anymore. Several times, Chet or Tony tried to talk, but they could never seemed to get past the obvious, "I'm sure he's okay, Frank" before they were rendered mute.

What do you say to people after situations like this? People came and left our little corner of the hospital, for the most part staying in groups. Some kids I knew left with their parents, shaking, with stitches or a cast. I hoped Joe would be as lucky.

The only thing that really made me talk was John's return. He smiled at me, collapsing back into his old seat. I looked at him, eyebrows raised, hoping that our little bonding would make him open up about his girlfriend. He looked at me, smiling a tired little smile.

"She's going to be alright. She has to stay in the hospital for a few days, because the bullet was near the head area. Luckily, it didn't hit anything major, and it only grazed her. A couple of centimeters…" he didn't finish his sentence, and he didn't have to. We all knew.

"So she'll be alright?" Tony asked quietly. "That's great, John." He sounded like he really meant it, too. Something good --- anything --- in this terrible day.

"Yeah, I mean…" he trailed off, looking odd. "It doesn't matter to me, of course, but the bullet did graze her face…she…she won't look the same."

Once again, reality hit with surprising force. We were dumbfounded by this new-found knowledge. How could Carrie --- fun, beautiful Carrie --- be hurt like this? I looked at John, though, and by his expression, I knew that Carrie could be a leper and he would still love her. That kind of attraction always surprised and scared the hell out of me.

I looked again at my watch, nearly jumping out of my seat when I realized it was only 11:17. God, it had only been around an hour since we'd arrived at the hospital. It seemed like an eternity.

I thought back to the morning, remembering how Joe had been slow, and how mad I'd been. The last thing I did was hit him…God, it was like a bad soap opera. Only much, much worse.

I think all of us jumped to attention when we saw the doctor coming towards us. I stood up, fidgeting, fearing the worst and hoping, praying to whoever not to let that nightmare come true.

It was a different doctor. This one was older, with graying hair and glasses. The way he looked at me made me feel like he was my grandfather, and I immediately felt calmed. "We have some good news. It appears a Joseph Hardy is out of surgery." He looked around the now-crowded room. "Is there anyone here for him?"

"I am!" I rushed forward, Chet and Tony on my heals. The grandfather-doctor first looked disapproving, then softened. "Were you there?" He asked, softly. I nodded. "Did you get that boy out?" Again, I nodded. At once, I felt a wrinkled hand come down on my shoulder and squeeze it with surprising force for one so old. "Well done, son." The doctor said, quietly.

A wave of relief swept through my body at the thought of having Joe out of surgery. "He's in room 216." The doctor said, briskly. "We have a lot of kids, so he's sharing. And he's not out of the woods yet --- he'll be here for at least a couple of days."

I thanked him, wringing his hand. I went down the hall, finding myself flanked with Chet, Tony, and (surprisingly) John. "He's in the same room as Carrie." He said, quietly. I looked at him, forcing a small smile. Somehow, I was glad John would be in the same room. Maybe he needed me as much as I needed him. Poor guy looked completely lost, and I couldn't blame him. We still had no word about his brother.

We passed Carrie's bed before we saw Joe. She was sleeping, or passed out at least. John dropped a kiss on her forehead, or what you could see of it. Most of her face was covered in bandages.

When I saw Joe, I almost cried. He looked tiny against the too-white sheets, which is odd because my brother is anything but tiny. But he was alive and that was all that really mattered.

He wasn't awake and I reached out and took his hand. I took a quick peek at his chart, interpreting the squiggles as best I could. Blood loss, a concussion, probably from hitting his head against the desk, and one of his kidneys had been hit by the bullet. A lung had collapsed, which was why he was spitting up blood. I shivered, thinking of how close my brother had been to dying. How close he still was to dying. I felt tears sting my eyes again. I was such a crybaby.

I watched as his IV dripped blood into his arm, wondering vaguely where all the blood was going and not really caring.

I felt Chet and Tony and John settle in around me. Chet let out a small moan and I looked at him. "He has no hair." I blinked, registering the fact for the first time. All of Joe's golden hair was gone. I remembered how much he used to hate that hair. In Elementary School, he had picked up the unlucky name on "Sunshine" because of his hair. He put an end to that nickname after he hit a growth spurt in seventh grade.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to let my shoulders relax. I kept telling myself that it was over now, Joe was okay. It was like nothing ever happened.

I was a terrible liar. Joe might still not be okay. I wanted to look away from the machine that was breathing for him. That one was the worst.

Unwillingly, I thought back to the school. I flinched at the thought of having to go back there, although I guessed it would take a little time to re-open the school. It was a major crime scene at the moment. And what of the future? There would be a trial, and witnesses, and testimonies, things I was used to because of my dad's work, but to experience it in this setting…

Once again, I pushed the thoughts away. Out of sight, out of mind. Whoever said that first was an idiot. I gripped Joe's hand tighter, willing him to wake up. Joe had the strange characteristic of making everything into a joke. On cases, chasing bad guys, running from bad guys…it was all a joke to Joe. Once he woke up things would get better.

The door to the room opened and a doctor slipped in. Yet another new doctor. I wondered vaguely how many doctors the city of Bayport had. They were probably all here now. This one looked haggard, his eyes with deep circles underneath somehow very prominent on his face. "Is a John Growe in here?" He asked, his voice, breaking the silence of the room.

John stood up expectantly, clearly hopeful that he would have news about his brother. I was probably the only one who saw him shaking, and reached out to touch his wrist.

The doctor stared at him for a long second. "David Growe it dead. He died minutes ago on the operating table."

It felt like the air had been beaten out of my lungs. I looked up at John, his face open for a surprised second. I saw surprise, fear, anger, and sadness reflected in his features for that one second before it was closed off. Neutral. He fell back into the seat, his mouth still partly open.

I didn't know what to say. I looked around for Chet and Tony, who looked as surprised and terrified as I felt. Dave was only a Junior. He was in Joe's year. He was a geek, played French Horn for the band, and was a surprisingly good pitcher. And he had died.

Without thinking, I put an arm around John's shoulders. No one had said a word since the doctor had spoken. Words were inadequate, beyond useless. I let myself think for a second about what I would have done if Joe had died today. I probably would want to curl up into a ball and cry.

John's slim shoulders were shaking under my arm. He hadn't let out a sound before now, but now came a low moan, barely audible. I looked over at the captain of the basketball team, straight-A, all-around nice guy crying over his now-dead brother and felt my blood boil.

For the first time that day, I wanted to know who had done this. What would possess anyone to do this to our school? Who had given them the right to rip brothers apart?

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