It was no secret that the other boys felt bad about what happened to Micky. Mike said that Micky fed off the attention he was getting, and it was only making things worse - someone should give him the reality rundown of the situation, after all. Then, he'd turn around and say nothing himself, and tell Davy and Peter later that he just felt too bad about what happened to give Micky the bad news.

Peter often wondered what this "bad news" was, since Micky had such a good chance of getting better. He couldn't wonder about the what-ifs, simply because he was naturally prone to focusing on whatever positive he could grasp. If the doctor said Micky would probably get better, then he had to believe that Micky would get better. To consider the alternative was too heartbreaking.

Their friend had to stay in the hospital for a while, although the injury wasn't so bad as to require surgery. There was a 'procedure' done, which Peter didn't really understand, and on that day, they were all there to greet him when he woke up. After that, they all took shifts to make sure that during visiting hours, someone was always there with him, because he liked to talk, and when he talked at the nurses, it interfered with their work. One day, Mike even brought in a stuffed Monkey's paw, and told Micky he ought to wish that he couldn't talk again, for the sake of the hospital staff.

Micky asked why he shouldn't just wish he could see again.

It was the only hint that something was wrong. Micky seemed so upbeat, that he never let the blindness get to him when he was in the hospital, but even Peter couldn't ignore the slight stung feeling in the curly-haired drummer's voice on that day. After a silence fell over the room for a few seconds longer than it should have, Micky cheerfully started talking about the finer points of birch trees and slingshots, and the unease ended.

On the day he came home, all three of the other boys were there to "help," which the nursing staff found slightly obnoxious.

"Look, we only need one person to push a wheelchair, and— "

"Well how d'you expect us to pick?" Davy asked. He put his hands on his hips, letting go of the handles on Micky's wheelchair, which Peter took, instead.

" —And an orderly should be doing that! Not some long-haired kids!"

"The hair does tend to get in the way of wheelchair-pushing," Mike droned, elbowing Peter out of the way. In the span of five minutes, they managed to reach the door of Micky's room.

"You should choose fingers for it," Micky said, turning around. He stared upward, eyes fixed at a point between Mike and Peter. Peter hated that they looked so blank and lifeless lately, considering that it used to be a lot different. Anyone could, at one point, look into Micky's eyes and see their intelligence and mischief. Now they were slightly crossed, their pupils blown and sightless. They didn't move, didn't search like they always had before, betraying Micky's hyperactive state of being and instinctive need to see everything.

"Right, choose fingers. Everyone stick out your hand."

Everyone did. Including Micky, and a couple seconds later, Micky won.

"Mick," Mike said. "How're you gonna push your own wheelchair?"

"Hadn't thought that far ahead," he replied. "Come to think of it, why do I even need a wheelchair? It's not as if my legs are broken."

"It's just how we do things here," the nurse said, holding her hands out perpendicular to the ground. After each words, she waved them, as if punctuating her statements. "We wheel you to the door, then you leave. Don't argue."

"Doesn't seem very nice," Peter said, pouting. "You oughtta be nice."

"Oh, for the love of— I'll push it!" the nurse said, finally shoving her way between Michael and Peter. She didn't give them a chance to say anything else before she was pushing Micky away from the room, and at a rapid clip down the hallway.

Peter, Mike, and Davy had to jog just to keep up with her as Micky yelled, "HELP! I'm being kidnapped by a beautiful woman!"

"How d'you know she's beautiful?" Davy called back.

"She's a woman!" Micky replied, paused, and added, "Never mind, guys, I'm okay, with it."

As Mike ran ahead to get the car, Davy kept Micky occupied with various bits and pieces of conversation. Did they have any gigs? Yes. Had Babbitt fixed the sink yet? No. A few paces back, Peter attempted to lose himself in thought, but this was made especially difficult by the fact that critical thinking often came reluctantly to the poor blond-haired boy. He wasn't stupid, but he also wasn't necessarily booksmart like Micky, or naturally witty like Michael, either. To arrive at any conclusion took some thought and dedication, and the reasoning for an unease that had been plaguing Peter for several days now kept eluding him.

Sometimes, Davy would tell him he had the gift of empathy. When Peter asked what that meant, his short friend shrugged and said that it involved being very good at feeling. Reading emotion. Davy went on to say that if anyone needed cheering up or comforting, Peter would be there in a heartbeat, without even being asked. As true as those statements seemed at the time, Peter's empathic gift was failing him now, because he couldn't tell if some sort of problem existed, or if worry simply dominated his thoughts at the moment.

When Michael pulled up in the Monkeemobile, the nurse's shoulders relaxed. As the other guys helped Micky up and into the front passenger seat, Peter took her hand. She looked at him, eyes hard and tired.

"Just wanted to thank you for taking care of him," Peter said. "And, you know. Being so good to all of us. We're like brothers, you know? I don't know what we'd do if you hadn't been around."

Davy grabbed him by the sleeve and gave a tug. "C'mon, Peter. Stop hittin' on the hospital staff and get in the car. We gotta get Micky home."

The nurse smiled at him, and he returned the expression while allowing Davy to drag him away. As they climbed into the back seat, the nurse continued to smile, even as she turned around and headed back inside.

"You get her number?" Davy asked.

Mike started driving off, and Micky flipped around to look into the back seat, even if his eyes were focused on neither of them. "Whose number?"

"Oh, that nurse's," Davy replied.

"Cute?" Micky asked. "She sounded cute."

"How do you sound cute?" Davy asked. "S'like saying something feels yellow."

"I dunno, she just did. I think I have super hearing powers now."

"Hey," Peter interrupted, pouting. "I was just thanking her for taking care of you. She seemed upset." And, he thought to himself, maybe that's what was bothering him. That must have been it, since assuring her that her care meant something made him feel better.

"What— Super hearing powers? You must be joking," Davy went on.

Peter thought he might have seen Micky frown a bit.

"But it's true," the curly-haired young man said. "I'm hearing everything. I mean, I can tell who's walking around just by hearing their footsteps. And Mike's accent— "

"I don't got one," Mike said. "Y'all have one. I talk just fine."

Micky quieted, sighing. "So, Pete, was she cute?"

"I guess," Peter said. The unease was back, even though Micky offered him one of his patented too-wide smiles.

"All right. Way to go."

Since the hospital stood on the other side of the city, the drive home took a fairly long time. Halfway there, and in a gridlock on the expressway, Mike finally brought up the one thing that none of them spoke about since the first time Davy mentioned it. "Guys, this hospital bill is gonna be astronomical. We need a game plan."

"Hey," Micky said. "Don't worry about it, guys. Look, I've already been discussing it with my folks. We're gonna figure somethin' out. We can't worry about that and the rent."

"Well, there's a few things I've been thinkin' about," Mike said. "And if we can alleviate some of the cost, well, we're your family, too, Mick. And I think it's our duty and privilege to help you out."

Davy and Peter muttered their agreement, and Micky, very quietly, replied, "Gosh, guys. I really don't know what to say."

As Mike slowed down so a couple cars could merge onto the freeway ahead of him, he reached out and patted Micky's shoulder. Peter noticed that Micky jumped a little, his head snapping to the left to look at Michael through sightless eyes. If Mike noticed, he didn't say anything about it, instead stating, "You don't have to say anything. Just let us take care of you for awhile."

Almost giddily, Micky replied, "I plan to."

—-

They situated Micky in the first floor bedroom with Davy. It seemed a bit more logical than making the poor guy navigate the stairs every time he wanted to go to or leave his room. At least on the first floor, he'd have access to the kitchen, bathroom, and most importantly, the television, without risking falling down a spiral staircase. Peter moved his things into the upstairs bedroom after talking things over with Davy. Despite the fact that they were all good friends, Davy's temper occasionally clashed with Michael's stubbornness, resulting in a whole lot of unpleasantness. Putting them in a bedroom together was just asking for trouble.

"So, this is the second floor," Peter said, tucking his fitted sheets under the corners of his mattress. He tried to stretch it up to the headboard, but it didn't seem to want to go.

"You've been up here before," Mike said. "And you've short-sheeted yourself. Here, you gotta turn it."

Peter stepped back, allowing Michael to arrange the sheet on the bed. "Sorry, Mike. Guess it makes sense that there's a certain way it goes."

"Eh, don't worry about it. There. Now you can do the rest, right?"

Peter nodded. As he decided which edge of his sheet was longer, Davy appeared at the door. "Okay, he's all situated, and he seems to want to stay in bed. Already had me bring 'im a glass of water and a magazine. Although, now that I think about it, I'm not quite sure what he's gonna do with that magazine…"

Questioningly, Peter looked at Mike, who rolled his eyes. "The problem is, Micky's too opportunistic," was his answer.

As if on cue, a call of "Oh Daaaavy…" drifted up the stairs. Sighing, the short young man disappeared. Shrugging, Peter and Mike followed their friend down the stairs and into Micky's room.

"You guys really should just get me a bell or somethin', like in the cartoons," Micky said, holding up the magazine. "Davy, can you read this to me?"

In the course of the next few hours, as Davy read the articles in the magazine to Micky, both Mike and Peter brought him everything he asked for. Peter didn't particularly mind running to the store for ice cream, or checking Micky's drums to make sure they weren't infested with fleas. He didn't even really mind polishing Micky's shoes or taking over reading when Davy got tired of doing so. Michael, on the other hand, seemed not to appreciate the constant calls and summons that came from the first floor bedroom.

And they were fairly constant. Some things were genuinely necessary, such as food and water and the like. Other things… Well. Some of Micky's requests ranged from absurd to downright silly. Even so, Peter couldn't help thinking that if someone was blind, they should have all the attention they wanted.

When Micky finally fell asleep, Peter set the magazine on the nightstand, quietly sneaking out of the room and into the kitchen. Michael was making dinner, while Davy sat with his head down on the table. Admittedly, Peter felt a wave of tiredness, although not so much that he could pass up the opportunity to grab a sandwich off the tray Mike was preparing.

"He's sleeping," Peter said.

"Please don't wake 'im up," Davy muttered, his head still down. "Let 'im eat later. I need a break."

Picking up the tray, Mike set it down on the table, and sat across from Davy, tiredly staring at it without taking a sandwich for himself. "That boy's gotta be off his rocker."

Peter shrugged and sat down between them. "I dunno, I think his requests were pretty reasonable. You know Micky. He's always gotta be doing a hundred things at once. And you did say we'd take care of him, Mike."

Davy finally picked up his head, tired brown eyes staring incredulously at Peter. "He asked you to sort his socks by brightest white to greyest white. Then he asked me to alphabetize his trousers."

"…Yeah, I guess that's a little odd," Peter muttered. "But I don't mind, really. It's not like he can see the colors to do it himself."

"Alphabetize his trousers, Peter," Mike emphasized.

"He's havin' a go," Davy added. "And a lot of this stuff doesn't need doin' at all. Look, I can only take so much. We ought to make him come out here to eat. Like he said, his legs aren't broken."

Mike nodded. Peter bit his lip, unsure. "Guys, he really needs us right now. I dunno what it is, but something feels off."

Mike chuckled. "Look, he's having fun, and he knows it. If we stop doing everything he wants us to do, he's eventually going to get out of bed and do it for himself." When Peter frowned, Mike reached out and patted his shoulder. "Look, have you ever closed your eyes and wandered around to see if you could do it?"

Peter nodded.

"That's all he has to do. And I think he knows it, too. I'm not sayin' it's gonna be easy for him, but if this is gonna last any length of time, he's gonna have to start doin' things on his own. And I really think that he's graspin' at straws here, tryin' to find stuff for us to do that doesn't need doin', just because he can."

They ate quietly for awhile, until Micky's voice came from the bedroom, "Hey! Did you guys make dinner?"

Peter stood up to grab another plate, ignoring Davy, who hissed, "Let him come out here, Peter!"

He took the plate into the bedroom, knocking on the door once to announce his arrival. "Thought you'd be asleep for awhile," he said.

"Yeah, I dozed off," Micky replied. When Peter handed him the plate, he felt around on it until he found one of the sandwiches. Picking the top slice off, he held it up to his nose and sniffed it, then prodded it with his fingers. "What's this? It's slimy."

"Mustard," Peter grunted. "On salami. I'll go get you a napkin."

He left the room, wondering if Davy and Mike were right. Maybe if he just didn't go back, Micky would eventually leave the room on his own, and take care of himself a little. But it was just his first day home from the hospital. Eventually, he'd do all that on his own, right? There was no reason to force him into it, right?

Davy and Mike weren't exactly glaring at him, but they were staring in his general direction with a look of bored frustration. After retrieving a napkin from the counter, Peter started to head back, but stopped, turning back toward the table.

What if they were right?

Peter sometimes had a hard time determining when he was being taken advantage of. He genuinely wanted to help people, to be their friends, and to take care of them. The more he thought about Micky, though, the more he realized that he was being used. They all were.

The unease lingered, even then.

Something wasn't adding up.

Against his better judgment, he sat back down. A few minutes later, the call came from the room: "Hey, Peter! You get that napkin?"

A few minutes later, Micky's voice came again. "Hey, Pete? You still here?" Then, "Davy? Mike?"

It hurt to sit there, letting Micky call them. But their friend was nothing if not tenacious. Eventually, he'd get tired of shouting and actually get out of bed. The longer they sat there, the more frustrated Micky became.

"Guys, this isn't funny! What if I have to go to the bathroom or somethin'?"

"Hey, don't worry about the napkin. I used the wall!"

"Guys?"

"Peter? Davy?"

"Miiiiike?"

When he didn't say anything for a while, Peter began to feel the old stirrings of worry again. The unease he felt was building to a slight anxiety, and eventually he said, "Look, guys. I gotta go in there."

Without waiting for a response, Peter pushed his chair back and hurried into the bedroom.

Micky stood next to the bed, eyes wide, hands slightly in front of him. Every couple seconds, he'd feel around as if disoriented, and, finding nothing, he'd turn his head back and forth. His face was wet from tears, which had also created little spots on his pajamas. He looked terrified; at that moment, the entire reason behind Peter's unease became clear: Micky was scared.

Stepping forward, Peter took hold of Micky's hands. His friend was so relieved, that he threw his arms around Peter, suddenly releasing the flood gates and sobbing into his shoulder. "I thought you guys left me," he muttered quietly. "I couldn't feel anything. I didn't know where to step…"

"Micky, you know the house…"

Peter felt the other young man shake his head violently. "I dunno what to say. It's different now. It's not— It's just not the same, okay?"

As Mike and Davy wandered through the door, as well, Micky continued. "I can't do this. There's no color, there's no… I need to be able to … Everything I did I saw, Peter."

"Mick? You okay?" Mike finally asked.

He shook his head again, face still buried in Peter's shoulder.