Author's Note: I am baaaaaaaaack! Thanks to all who left me great reviews. Still trying to get over my jet lag, I've rewritten this chapter like three times, hence the reason I didn't post it immediately after I returned. And I'm still not completely 100% happy with it, but I feel like there's not much else I can do with it. Maybe because it's so long and a lot is going on - I don't know, but I struggled with balancing the emotions and making sure everyone was in character. The next one will be better, I promise. But this one is a nice and long Evan POV for your trouble and your patient waiting. Just... um... just don't throw anything at me after you read it...

Don't own RP, storyline based on true events.

Evan

Craaaaaaaap. I would pay a handsome sum for someone to kill me right about now. Well, ok, maybe that's a bit over the top, not to mention probably a little ungrateful given the efforts made to save my life yesterday. But I'm not sure I can adequately sum up just how utterly wretched I feel in the suckage that is this post-surgical aftermath. Once the reality of my survival fully sank in, I confess I had hoped to feel a bit better now that the problem was solved. Apparently that was way too much to ask for.

This is actually the most clear-headed I've been since I came out of the operating room, but let me let you in on a little secret: clarity is unbelievably overrated. I can only recall little bits from last night, but they're all rotten bits. The first thing I remember after seeing Hank in recovery is waking up in this room. Actually this part is kind of fuzzy – I think I was still under the influence of the anesthesia then, so I'm not totally sure if I was actually awake or just dreaming it. Hank was here and he was talking to Dad and Divya – I guess explaining that my glandy thing popped or whatever – but I'm not completely certain. Everything sort of sounded like it was underwater. Eddie R looked surprisingly old to me. He's always had a youthful vitality, but this really stuck out to me: that for the first time I actually saw him as an old man. He kept his distance, only willing to pat my leg. I think he was worried he'd hurt me or dislodge one of the dozens of tubes trailing out of me right now, or perhaps Hank had given him strict orders not to damage me. Then some nurse came in to do… something… and I guess I fell asleep again.

Then I woke up around 11 PM. At least that's what Hank said when I asked him what time it was. I asked him, like, a million times, because I had the mental retention of a goldfish at that point. I remember feeling kind of hot and restless, like I had a fever or something. Hank said it was probably a reaction to all the blood transfusions I had been given during the surgery. The way he said "all" makes me wonder exactly how many I had. Somehow, I suspect it was a lot. It was just the two of us, and he stayed up with me for the next couple of hours, putting cold cloths on my forehead and feeding me ice chips. He said it was easier than having me sit up to drink water. I was drifting in and out for most of that time, but I gradually relaxed and went back to sleep.

The most vivid recollection I have is waking up around 4 in the morning, in an absolutely obscene amount of pain. There was a moment when I actually thought I was back in the guest house on the floor, it hurt so badly. The really awful part was that I was maxed out on the morphine. There's a little overdose prevention doo-dad on the drip that required some special code which Hank had been controlling the whole night, but it wouldn't let me have more for about an hour. Even Hank wasn't able to make it give me more. An hour doesn't sound like a remarkable length of time in retrospect, but it seemed like an eternity for me, and it sucked. I was very, VERY awake for that hour, and unfortunately I remember every horrible minute, lying here moaning and shaking with pain and pleading with Hank to make it go away. At one point, I demanded that he let me die if he couldn't give me anything to stop it. And I fully remember his face when I said that – he looked like I had kicked him in the gut. Though I certainly couldn't appreciate it at the time, I know he was turning himself inside out at not being able to do anything to expedite my relief. And I did not make things easy for him. I'm very ashamed of that.

It's now some time in the early morning. I can see glimmers of daylight streaming in from the part in the curtains. I've been awake for about fifteen minutes or so, and for the moment I'm not in an unreasonable amount of discomfort. Every so often, pain will roll over me like a wave on the beach, but I can deal with it. My poor brother is curled up in the armchair near my bed. He looks like he's actually sleeping pretty peacefully despite the awkward positioning, and after the night I gave him, I'm trying to hold off waking him for as long as possible. It's the least I can do, and the minute he wakes up I plan on apologizing for the whole wah-wah-it-hurts-please-kill-me-i-want-my-mommy stuff from last night.

In the meantime, I mentally try to take stock of my situation, counting up the tubey things that are sticking in me, trying to make sense out of the numbers glowing on the monitors around me. As I'm doing my inventory, I notice that my fingers seem swollen. In fact, I feel sort of… fat. I somehow seem to have put like 30 pounds onto my willowy frame overnight. Wow, that sounds really vain and stupid, not to mention where are my priorities? But it's a little weird, right? Hmmm. It has to be a reaction to the drugs or something. Knowing I'll probably regret it, I try to move my heavy arms to lift the blanket and peer down to see if my legs are swollen too. It hurts to do this, and it's hard to tell from my vantage point since I can't really sit up, but then I get distracted looking at a few more tubes I didn't realize were there. Oh, hell no… I've seen enough reruns of 'House' to know that that one particular tube disappearing under my hospital gown is a… a catheter. Arg! Yuck, yuck, yuck! When did they stick that in there? I have no recollection of that happening, and I'm pretty sure it would be something you'd remember! That's just obscene. I object, I completely object. But I make no attempt to pull it out. Not only am I not qualified to do that, I also can't reach that far at the moment. And I imagine it's in there for a good reason, whether I agree with it or not, and I'll probably get in trouble with the medical people, including my brother, if I try to yank it out now. Plus, I am fairly certain that I will be in for a world of hurt when it does come out….

"What on earth are you doing?"

Hank's awake. And he's looking at me with a funny, slightly groggy expression. Oh, I see – I'm holding up my blanket and looking at my bottom half intently. Yikes. God only knows what he must be assuming. Like I would even have the energy for that now. "Not what you think," I grumble, letting the blanket back down over me once more, wincing as I do so. "I was just… weighing the pros and cons of ditching the catheter."

"Evan, don't you dare pull anything out!" Hank is wide awake now. He jumps up quickly from the chair, stumbling over his sleepy feet, and rushes over to see what I must have ruined. Oh, for crying out loud…

"I didn't touch anything…" I gripe as my brother checks just about every wire and tube on me, including the offensive catheter (which is just great and not embarrassing at all, oh no), wishing I didn't sound quite so annoyed and exhausted. "I wouldn't be able to mess anything up anyhow. I can barely move."

He seems to be satisfied that everything that should be attached to me is actually attached. He sighs and rubs his eyes for a moment, then, blinking the remnants of sleep away, goes into concerned, overprotective brother mode. "How long have you been awake? Are you ok? How's your pain?" The questions come rapidly, and I don't know whether to give a blanket answer or respond to each individually. Instead, I decide to try to dispel his hovering a little bit with a change of subject. If I can still make him smile, it means that I'm not in as dire a situation as I keep imagining I am.

"I'm ok at the moment," I say, giving him as reassuring a smile as I can manage. "But…" and here I lower my voice almost conspiratorially. Hank leans in to hear what I'm going to say. "I think I'm fat," I whisper seriously, as if someone might be listening and judging my fat ass for being fat.

Hank's brow furrows. "Huh?"

"I'm not fishing for compliments here, Henry, I'm serious. Am I fat?" I suppose I also could have gone with 'Does this hospital gown make me look fat?'

A sharp blast of air shoots out of my brother's nose, sounding like a snort. But he does try to keep a straight face and answer me seriously. "No, of course you're not fat."

"Don't lie to make me feel better. My fingers look like little sausages."

"Oh, for the love – You're not fat, Evan. You're experiencing some residual puffiness. You got really dehydrated yesterday from blood loss, and now your body is retaining the fluids that were given to you. Once your tissues absorb it and replace what they lost, the rest will drain away," he explains. I guess that makes sense.

But I decide to keep going anyway. If I can prove that I can find some humor in the situation, Hank will hopefully relax a bit. "So what you're saying is, I'm fat."

"No. I'm saying you're temporarily a little swollen."

"Like the Michelin Man."

"Evan!" Hank shakes his head in disbelief. I think he's starting to get that I'm messing with him. I can see some of the tension leaving his face. "I know it must feel a little weird, but it's really not that bad, and I promise it will go away quickly. I just can't believe that you're worried about a little water weight at a time like this."

"First of all, it's like 30 pounds of water weight, which is a lot no matter how temporary it is. And I didn't know it was water weight, so you can see why I'd be a little disturbed at waking up to an instant overnight blubber butt. Secondly, what else am I going to worry about? I think you're probably worried enough for both of us." Hank's wry look dims a little, and I know that I'm right. I hesitate to ask, but curiosity has been plaguing me since I could coherently think about the whole situation, and I'm positive he's been thinking about it all night long. "Hank, why did this happen?" I ask quietly.

"I don't know, we haven't got the test results yet, Ev. It's still very early in the morning; we'll probably know in a few more hours," Hank responds patiently, checking his watch.

"I know… but what do you think caused it?" I press. "You're a doctor – you have to have some theory as to why my little glandy thing went 'splodey everywhere."

He winces a little at my description, which I guess is maybe a bit graphic, but I see him collecting his thoughts and deciding how to respond. He muses, almost to himself, "What do I think?" A moment's pause, and then he looks directly at me and says, "I think you got an infection or obstruction of some sort, perhaps a clot, which inflamed your adrenal gland – your 'glandy thing,' as you call it – and eventually caused it to rupture. That's what happens with appendicitis. I'm betting it was something similar in this case."

An infection or an obstruction. I guess that sounds like a plausible, satisfactory answer. Hank would know, after all. Yet, I can't shake this feeling that it's not so simple. It's not that I think Hank is lying to me, not at all. It's just… I don't know. I'm simply not convinced. Something about the way his smile, while definitely and completely genuine, doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't have the same sort of confidence I've seen in him when he successfully diagnoses our HankMed clients. I think he's either giving me the answer he is hoping to hear rather than the one he expects to hear, or he's as clueless as I am and has absolutely no idea why this happened at all. He's trying to reassure me, to keep me from worrying or panicking, so he's keeping his actual thoughts to himself. Maybe even locking them down so he doesn't have to deal with his own assumptions unless or until it becomes necessary. One of the burdens of being a doctor is that Hank knows more about these things, which means he has a lot more possibilities to sift through. He's more than simply worried about me. This goes beyond overprotective big brother. There's a slow-moving undercurrent of dread beneath his calm expression. He's scared.

"What's done for that?" I ask, as casually as I can, adding 'if that's what it really is' to myself. I don't confront him with my suspicions. Though I know he's holding back, and though I'm still wondering what he's really thinking, something prevents me from asking about it. Deep down, I'm not sure I want to know what it is he fears is wrong with me.

Then again, deep down, I think I might already know what he's worried about. And I don't think I want to hear him put it out there.

I must do a good job of seeming as though I buy his explanation, because Hank continues on with his infection/obstruction theory. "Well, the gland has already been removed, which is the primary thing. Once they confirm the diagnosis, you'll probably get some antibiotics, and then you go home when you've healed sufficiently. It might be a few weeks until you're back on your feet – you might be CFOing from your bed for a while." His smile stretches a little bit, and now it looks normal as he gently jokes with me. I don't feel much like joking anymore though. If it turns out it was just a simple ailment, as Hank said, I'll still be laid up for a few weeks? I shudder to think how long I'll be out of commission if it truly is something worse. Either way, it's more stress for my brother to add me to his list of patients.

"And you're forced to take care of me that whole time," I say glumly.

Hank arches his brow. "For the record, I like taking care of you. It sure beats the alternative."

"Someone else taking care of me?" Now that could actually be a thought. I don't want HankMed to suffer because Hank's wasting his time fretting over me. Maybe he could put Divya in charge of me and see clients solo. Of course, I would have to be very careful to be a good patient and not bug the hell out of Divs, causing her to run screaming from the guest house….

"No, the other alternative." What's the other – oh, he means not being able to take care of me because I'm dead. Right, that does make more sense. Whoops. All this medication, not to mention keeping all the worrying buried deep, is making me kind of slow on the uptake.

"I just wish I hadn't caused all this trouble for you," I continue. "I should've come to you sooner about the back pain. I'm sorry, bro… I honestly didn't think it was a big deal, or I would have. Really, I would have-"

"Evan, don't. Nothing you did caused this. And even if I had examined you sooner, I would've treated you the same way." Hank smiles a bit guiltily at me. "A ruptured adrenal gland is not something I've encountered very often. In fact, I've never encountered it. There are forty other things I would have treated you for before even thinking of an adrenal problem. I saw a common symptom – back pain – and I automatically assumed that it was a muscular issue because it was a logical conclusion." He looks at me seriously. "You were still functioning; you could walk; you didn't have a fever, or nausea, or numbness, or any other alarming symptoms. Aside from the discomfort, you were perfectly fine. Neither of us could have known what was going to happen. It's not your fault." He pauses, then chuckles softly. "I guess it isn't mine, either."

"Of course not!" I blurt, stunned that he seems to have just now realized this. "Hank, please tell me you're not blaming yourself for what happened." Geez, if he's feeling guilty about my thing popping, how much worse did I make things last night with my unmanly meltdown? 'Give me something – anything – just make it stop! If you won't help me now, then for God's sake, why couldn't you have just let me die earlier? I can't take it, Hank – please just kill me! I want to die, I can't stand it. PLEASE!' Yeah, real sensitive, Evan. Sheesh.

"No, no… I'm not, bro. It's no one's fault. I know that. I just hadn't said it out loud to myself yet." He sees my dubious expression and chuckles. "Seriously. I promise, I'm not blaming myself. Just like I know you're not blaming yourself," he adds pointedly.

"Touché," I concede. Before I can say anything else, my words are stifled in my throat as pain hits me. Unlike the past week, when the pain was confined to a small space in my back, this rolls throughout my entire body, all the way down to my toes. Shuddering, I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, twisting the blanket in my puffy hands, which hurts too. For a moment, I only focus on allowing it to pass. I feel Hank move closer to me, feel his hand on my shoulder. "Just breathe through it, buddy," he says gently, and I hear the little boop-boop sound of him punching in the code on the morphine drip, allowing a little more to flow into my veins. "Take it easy."

I exhale as the awfulness subsides, and blink away the tears that had formed in my eyes. Taking a few more deep breaths, I say, "It's ok; I'm ok… it passed. Whew."

"Not as bad as last night?" Hank asks, his hand moving to my face to wipe off a tear that had snaked down my cheek.

"No, nowhere near as bad as last night…" I sigh. "Sorry about all that, by the way… you know, for the stuff I said…"

"Don't apologize, Evan. You were in agony. I understand. I just wish I could have done more for you."

"You've done plenty for me, Hank," I say sincerely, before a yawn ruins the moment. Man, that morphine just sucks the energy right out of you.

My brother smiles. "Kicking in already, is it?" He straightens the blanket I manhandled during my pain fit. "You should rest now. I'll be right here." Just like he always is, I think as I close my eyes…

But when I do wake up several hours later, it is Divya who sits by my side, not Hank. I guess he ran out to get coffee or change his clothes or something. She doesn't see I'm awake right away, so I take advantage of the moment to just look at her, which is always a nice experience. She's got her hand entwined with mine, and she seems to be studying them intently as her thumb absently rubs my knuckles. She looks… kind of bummed out, actually. I wonder what she's thinking about.

As much as I am enjoying the view of 'Divya at Rest,' curiosity gets the better of me yet again. I also want to make sure she's ok. "Hi, Div," I murmur, sleep still present in my voice.

She starts when the silence is broken, then recovers with a soft smile. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

"I'm ok…."

"You look considerably better than you did yesterday."

Oh, she is so lying – I know that given how I currently feel, I MUST look like death warmed over, especially since I'm all fat and junk. Well, I guess she's referring to the fact that I'm not screaming all over the floor. "Well, thanks, Div…. Are you doing ok?"

"Me?" She looks at me, perplexed. Sure, I suppose it's an odd thing to ask – I'm the one in the hospital bed after nearly dying from a glandular hemorrhage. But I know that I'm not the only one affected here. The situation took a toll on all the people who stayed conscious yesterday, maybe even more of a toll than on me. Divya suddenly lets go of my hand and stands up, as if she just realized she was still holding it and is embarrassed to have been caught touching me. She goes into Physician's Assistant mode, and begins to busy herself collecting some ice chips in a cup. "I'm fine, Evan…. Your brother went home to shower and change and pick up a few things for you. I'm sure he'll be back soon." She offers the cup to me. "Thirsty?"

I nod. I manage to pop one into my mouth, and as I suck on it, feeling it melt down my throat, I ask, "Has my dad come by or anything?" Even though I know it was Dad who found me yesterday, a small part of me is scared that the whole incident was too much for him and he bolted.

"Actually he did, shortly before I got here. No one wanted to wake you up, so I suggested that Hank take the opportunity to get some air. Your father actually gave Hank a lift home."

Wait, Hank and Eddie agreed to carpool? "Was Dad holding a gun on Hank to get him to agree to that?" I ask.

Divya rolls her eyes and smirks. "No, they were perfectly civil. I guess you could say they've… found common ground."

"Common ground? What common ground?" I am so confused right now. How long have I been asleep? Was my adrenal gland the gateway to some alternate dimension where the Lawsons were a functional family unit?

"I believe that would be you," Divya says, patting my leg, and so help me, there is some sort of undertone in her voice of what sounds to me like affection. So Dad and Hank are buddies now because I'm sick? That's… weird. I seem to have missed quite a lot in the past 12 or so hours. Well, maybe it's not that weird. I guess if they thought I was going to croak, they came together for mutual support? Huh. But that's what I wanted, right? From the beginning, this is what I've been working toward – having Hank and Dad establish a relationship again. And that's good. And now they're together… without me. Because I'm here. And they didn't want to wake me. So… great.

"Evan, you alright?"

I suddenly snap out of my own head, and Divya is looking at me with concern. Like, a lot of concern. I must have gotten a funny look or something. Mustering as much effervescence as possible (which I'm sorry to say, is a rather pathetic amount), I give her a feeble smile and work to change the subject, deciding to try and see what gave her that funky look I saw while covertly observing her. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine… just feeling a little twinge, but really, I'm ok. So… what's wrong?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Divya takes her huffy tone, and turns her back to me, fidgeting with the ice and the other various things on the nightstand by the bed.

"Come on, Divs. You're all tense. What's got you so worked up?" I chuckle. "I mean, I know it's not because I'm in the hospital; you don't like me that much."

With a suddenness that makes my head spin, Divya reels around and faces me. To my shock her eyes are huge and wet with incoming tears. "Is that what you think?" she very nearly screeches at a frequency I thought only bats were capable of producing. "You really think that of me? Have I honestly made you believe I hate you so much that I don't give a fig if you're sick? Because it's just not true, Evan!"

"No, no, no, no, no, no! Divya, I was just joking, I didn't mean anything by it, I swear!" I backpedal as quickly as I can. "I was doing that thing we do, you know? I say something, you say something, we get like a back-and-forth going… banter! I was trying to banter! Please don't be upset!" I attempt to reach for her arm, but I guess I underestimate how far and how fast I can move. Hurt, hurt, hurt! I give a hiss and wince, pulling back a bit as the stretching exerts its consequences.

The sound of my pain must reach her ears, since Divya snaps out of her frenzy. "Oh, be careful," she commands as she rushes to push me back down again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you pain," she murmurs, hastily swiping at her eyes, and keeping her gaze averted.

I get my breath back finally, and hurry to silence her. "No, Divya, please – I know you… 'give a fig.' I don't know why I said that, I was just trying to keep things light, you know? Listen, I am on so many drugs right now, I don't even know what I'm saying until I hear it come out of my mouth. You shouldn't take anything I say seriously right now. It's the drugs," I conclude feebly, begging with my eyes for her not to be upset. Making Divya cry is probably the last thing in the world I ever wish to do, especially given that I would destroy anyone else who did such a thing.

She purses her lips, then says, "Drugs, huh? What's your excuse for all the other times you've spoken without thinking?" My heart sinks a bit, but then I see the corners of her mouth twitching, and it slowly dawns on me that she's not really mad at me. I tentatively hold out my hand, and I feel a wave of relief as she takes it and squeezes it gently. Relief and… oh, fine, I enjoy the contact immensely. What do you want me to say?

"So you are actually ok?" I say, hesitantly.

Divya nods. "Yes, I am. But you're right, I was feeling a bit on the tense side. I just wanted to… hear you talk." She grimaces a bit. "That sounds like such a silly thing to say. I mean, I – we've been so worried about you, and I tossed and turned all night…" she sighs, then taking a deep breath, goes on. "You gave everyone quite the scare yesterday, Evan. You've got to promise me you won't ever do that to… to us again."

"Believe me, Divs, I have no plans to do this again. I actually didn't mean to do it this time." I bite my lip. "I'm sorry. I know it must have been scary for you. It was pretty scary for me, too – the part I was awake for."

"I know… it was… kind of horrible."

"It won't happen again. I mean, I guess it won't. I don't really know why it happened to begin with," I say. Then, innocently enough, I ask, "Do you know why it happened? Why my gland popped like that?" Divya's brown eyes go a bit wider in surprise at the question, and she looks like she's struggling for an answer. Ok, now I'm worried. "Did my test results come back while I was asleep?" Against all my best intentions, I feel my heart start beating very fast. Crap, this is it – moment of truth…

"Test results? No, we still don't know those yet." She looks apologetic. "I really couldn't say what happened, Evan. I haven't seen the labwork… I… I don't know enough…"

What? She doesn't know enough? About what? She may not have the little M.D. after her name, but she comes up with diagnoses all the time, and she's as quick as Hank. "If you had to wager a guess…" I insist.

"Evan, I… I mean, I suppose it could have been a hemorrhagic cyst," she hedges. Cyst? Well, it's clear she and Hank didn't get together to compare notes on this and get their story straight in case I starting polling them for opinions. "Or perhaps one of the blood vessels leading to the gland had an embolism, which later burst. Or it might be an infection. Or-"

"Ok, ok! That's good, I mean, I guess we'll see what the tests say," I interrupt, cutting her off before she recites the entire medical encyclopedia's chapter on adrenal glandular ailments. Geez, for someone who doesn't know enough, she sure started coming up with those possibilities pretty quick.

"Don't worry, Evan. The rupture was the most serious part of this, and it's been fixed. The likelihood of this ever happening again is practically nonexistant. I'm sure it was just a random anomaly." Divya smiles confidently at me. Her smile seems just a little more sure than Hank's did. And one of those diagnoses she was throwing out was something like the one Hank said, the infection one. Maybe that is the most likely cause, and maybe these fears I'm having are much ado over nothing. I do notice that neither Divya nor Hank put forth my theory as a possibility. They've always been honest with me, especially Hank. We've talked about tough subjects before. Wouldn't they try to prepare me if there was a significant chance of it?

My heartbeat starts to even out a bit, but in the back of my head I wonder why we still don't know anything. Is it just me, or is it taking a really long time? Hank did say we'd have the results this morning, didn't he? I'll just feel a lot less anxious when I know for sure what happened. Maybe.

Dad and Hank return a little while later, and Divya heads out to do a couple of follow-up visits with patients that were unwilling to reschedule, leaving all the Lawson men in one room for the first time since… well, I guess since last night when I was brought in here, if I'm being technical. Ok, it's the first time since all the Lawson men have been awake and halfway coherent in the same room and not tried to kill each other. Both of them seem to be in reasonably good moods. On the one hand, this is fantastic since they aren't at each other's throats for once. On the other hand, it's a little creepy, since they've been at each other's throats for, like, ever. I'm not sure I can get used to this. Maybe more morphine would help…

"Evan, son, it's so good to see you alert," Dad says, an expression of genuine relief on his face. "You scared the hell out of me yesterday."

"Sorry, Dad," I apologize, yet again, even though Hank said it wasn't my fault the rupture occurred. "I guess I owe you big time; if you hadn't come over when you did, I don't know what I would have done."

"I'd rather not think about what that outcome would have been," Dad says shuddering.

"You know… you don't have to lurk in the doorway," I say. He's been standing as far back as he can, still looking out of place and slightly uncomfortable. "You could come a little closer."

"I… I don't want to mess anything up," he stammers, waving his hands in front of him, gesturing vaguely to my entourage of tubes.

"You won't hurt me. It's ok."

Hank speaks up. "Eddie, it's fine," he encourages. "Just be careful." I guess he was waiting for Hank's permission above anything else, because he slowly moves closer to my bed until he's right next to me. He puts his hand on my cheek, the way he did yesterday at the guest house. Only this time, I'm not shuddering and shivering. His hand is still very warm though, just like it was then. "I knew you had to make it," he murmurs, almost to himself. "God wouldn't give me one son back, and then take the other from me. I knew he wouldn't…" Eddie looks at me with a kind of misty verklempt-ness. He looks at me for a long time, like he's trying to memorize me before I fade away. Hank comes a little closer and watches us both, and he seems kind of fuzzy-eyed too.

Things are getting a little too serious here. I decide to break the silence. "You guys need some Kleenex or something?" Dad chuckles a bit at me, patting my cheek, before clearing his throat and addressing us both in his normal, confident tones.

"It's almost lunchtime and I'm starved. You boys hungry? I could go get us something."

Hank nods, and actually I'm a little peckish, too. Ice chips aren't very filling. While I don't think I could eat much, I could definitely nibble on something about now. "You know, I could really go for-"

"Some Jello?" Hank interjects, looking at me pointedly. I frown.

"No, I was going to say that-"

"You could really go for some nice lime Jello? That's great! Since that's what you'll be eating for the next day or two at least."

"I hate Jello," I grumble, glaring at my brother's mock enthusiasm.

"Aw, come on, son. There's always room for Jello," Dad says in a chipper voice. Did he seriously just say that? Both Hank and I give him odd looks. He shrugs. "What? There is. It's a very light snack, not a lot of calories…" Holy crap, is he saying I'm fat? But it's water weight! That's what Hank said!

"Oh God, fine, I'll eat the damn Jello. But make it orange Jello. Not lime." I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Both Hank and Dad giggle at me. "Grumpy little patient, isn't he?" Dad says to Hank.

"Just wait until he actually starts feeling better." Oh, well, isn't this special. Common ground, indeed.

After promising to bring Hank a turkey club and me some… orange Jello (and I swear to God, if he brings me lime, I will flatline right here in front of him just to teach him and Hank a lesson), Eddie takes his leave. Hank opens the duffel bag he carried in with him, and paws through it. "Brought you some things – toothbrush, underwear, a bathrobe for when you can finally get up-"

"Laptop?" I ask hopefully. Hank looks at me incredulously so I guess that's a no.

"Are you serious? You can't even sit up right now and you think you're going to do work?" He says the word 'work' like it's something you do with a hooker.

"Well… not right this second, but eventually, I'd like to-"

"Nope. Sorry, bro. Not going to happen."

"Well, what else am I going to do in here?"

"Um, rest? Recover from the surgery you just had that saved your life? I'm just spitballing here." Oh, Hank and his sarcasm.

I put on the best pout I can manage. "But I'm siiiiick!" I whine. Hank places some magazines on the nightstand, calmly ignoring my feeble tantrum.

"Not helping your case here. You're siiiiick, so the last thing you need is to start stressing about work. Besides, don't you think you should wait until your sausage-fingers slim down a bit before trying to type?"

"Hey! Harsh toke, dude!" I say indignantly, and my beloved, sensitive brother just smirks. No computer, making me eat stupid Jello, teasing me about being a fatty-fat fatpants – I feel like I've been grounded…

There's a knock at the door, and both our heads swivel as a tall doctor strides in, a long white lab coat over blue surgical scrubs. He utters a politely casual "good morning."

"Dr. Kirkland," Hank says, stepping forward. They shake hands, and then Hank turns to me and says, "Ev, this is Dr. Kirkland. He performed your surgery yesterday." Oh, ok. Wow. So does this mean… it's time?

"Evan, good to see you awake," Dr. Kirkland says to me. "How's your pain today? On scale of 10?"

"Um, I guess maybe a… 7… and a half… with fluctuations up to 9," I say. That silly scale. I've seen illustrations of those things, with those little faces. It's so stupid – I mean, there's like no difference at all between zero and 1 and the face at number 10 has tears and a frown, like someone hurt number 10's feelings and now it's crying. And why does it just go up to 10? There are many, many fine gradations of pain. If I had created the pain scale, it would go up to maybe 50, with 1 being, like, tweezing a hair, 50 being flayed alive and set on fire with acid. What I went through yesterday would be like a 46. Eaten by a shark would be a 44…

"-around 4 this morning." Whoops, Hank's talking, and it sounds like he's telling the tale of my epic pain rant. Great. Better pay attention now, especially if Dr. Kirkland is getting ready to explain what on earth happened to make my gland go boom.

"Are those my test results?" I ask tentatively, inclining my head to the file he holds in his hands. The file which holds my fate.

"Yes, it is. Sorry for the delay – I know I said I'd have them to you first thing this morning, Hank, but I wanted to consult a specialist for another opinion." Oh hell, why did he need a second opinion? Is it that complex? Man, I feel like I'm about to throw up.

The door opens again, and a petite brunette doctor in her late forties briskly enters. "Here she is now," Dr. Kirkland says. "This is my colleague, Dr. Margaret Bowers. I asked her to join us so we could discuss the labs."

"Sorry to be late – I had to answer a page," she extends her hand to Hank, who introduces himself, and then introduces me and oh my God, I can't believe this is turning into the social hour. Normally I'm all for schmoozing but for the love, can we just get down to it so I know whether I'm going to die next week or in fifty years? Why, why, why does a specialist need to be present? Like, is her specialty adrenal glands, or… what?

My palms are sweating, and suddenly I feel the same way I did the day my mother died. I was in history class when the principal of the middle school came to my classroom and pulled me out. The rest of the class, believing me to be in trouble, did that communal under-their-breath "oooh" thing, as if to say to me, 'You're gonna get it now! What did you do?' Usually, if I got into trouble at school, I would be sent to the principal in her office, but this was the first time she had ever come to me. I had a really bad feeling about that. And it was not so much that I was worried about what I had done to warrant such a visit, because I had been on a streak of good behavior. With Mom being so sick, not only did I not want to annoy her or Hank, I also just didn't have the energy to misbehave. No… what terrified me to my core was more the fear that I wasn't in trouble at all. As we walked in silence to her office, I remember my stomach churning so bad I was scared I'd throw up all over her shoes. Then when I saw Hank, who should have been over at the high school doing his thing, standing there waiting for me, holding back tears in his already red eyes… and I knew. I have that same feeling as I did then, walking down that hallway to that office. I feel like I'm about to hear something I don't want to hear, that will rip my life as I know it apart at the seams. And like my mother's death, it's something that, deep down, I knew was coming.

I can't stand it anymore. "Nice to meet you," I say quickly, and then it just rolls out of my mouth, without preamble, with no semblance of tact or delicacy. "Do I have cancer?"

I feel Hank go rigid by my side. "Evan!" he blurts, his voice a mixture of astonishment, annoyance, horror and concern. I don't know what he's thinking, or how my question makes him feel, because I can't look at him, though I get the feeling he's staring at me with his mouth hanging open. I only look at the doctors in front of me, watching their faces, trying to see their reactions. I've clearly surprised them with my bluntness. I've surprised myself actually. I guess as much as I'm terrified of the answer, as much as I don't want to know, the desire to get it over with is greater.

Kirkland and Bowers exchange a glance with each other. Then addressing me, Bowers says in a voice so kind and sympathetic I almost shatter into a million pieces, "Yes, Evan. I'm afraid you do."

I feel Hank suddenly shrink beside me, his shoulders slumping.

I feel breath fly from my lungs.

I feel the blood pound in my ears.

Is this what my mother felt when she first heard these words? This numbness, this emptiness, this feeling of having just stepped off a cliff and now falling into an abyss with no bottom? Oh God… I'm just like Mom. This… thing… is inside my body – I suddenly feel like I'm rotting from the inside out. I knew it would turn out this way. And yet, I'm slightly astonished because as convinced as I was that it would be cancer, I still… I still sort of thought they'd tell me it wasn't. I didn't realize I was still harboring so much hope for myself…

I blindly fumble for something to hold onto, and instinctively find Hank's hand. I latch on, and even though the grip hurts my swollen fingers, and probably hurts him too, I cling on. He silently holds my hand equally tightly.

"Oh," I whisper, my voice having abruptly left me. It's a royally stupid response to this news. It may be the stupidest response I've ever given to anything in my entire life… but I can't think of anything else to say.

To Be Continued...

Author's Note#2: *ducks rotten tomatoes and projectile carrots* Sorry, sorry! Don't be mad at me! Details to follow! *dodges incoming pumpkin*