Johnny watched as Roy climbed the ladder out of the storm drain with the unconscious boy before guiding the other boy up the same ladder. It had been a close call, getting hit by the overflow, but it was okay now.
He boosted the other boy up, watching as he started climbing before starting his own ascent. Suddenly, his foot slipped, and he found himself in the rushing waters, desperately clawing for purchase and finding none. A feeling of panic coursed through him as he found himself helplessly carried away by the roaring water of the storm drain, crashing against the concrete walls.
The water was everywhere, leaving him unable to catch his breath and unable to find his bearings. His body was already taking a beating as his wild journey continued, seemingly without end. Eventually, he would have to come to a stop, wouldn't he?
Finally, he crashed into something hard, coming to a stop, the water still pouring over him, but he no longer had the strength to raise his head above it.
Let someone find the body, at least. It was Johnny's last thought before everything went dark.
# # #
Roy kneeled down, peering down into the manhole. "Johnny?!"
There was no answer, and a sick feeling washed over him. Johnny had been right behind him, hadn't he? Hadn't he?
He shone his flashlight down into the manhole. There was nothing but the rushing water where Johnny should have been. Where was he? Had he somehow been carried away by the rushing water? If that was the case, Johnny could be miles away by now, washed up somewhere, injured, if not—
No, Roy wouldn't allow himself to finish the thought. Johnny wasn't dead. He was like a cat, and he hadn't used up all his lives yet.
At least, Roy hoped not.
"Where's Johnny?" Chet asked.
Roy took a deep breath and exhaled. "I don't know. He was right behind me, and then he wasn't."
Chet's brows knitted together. "We need to start looking for him."
"He could be miles away by now, as fast as that water was moving," Roy answered as he pushed the button on the handy-talkie. "Engine Fifty-One, this is Squad Fifty-One, we've got a man missing."
There was a long pause before the handy-talkie crackled. "Ten-four, Squad Fifty-One. We're on our way."
Cap soon appeared with the county worker, who still had the maps in his hand. "Roy?"
"It's Johnny," Roy blurted out, "He was right behind me."
"We'll find him," Cap assured him before he turned his attention to the worker, "How far down does this storm drain go?"
The worker opened up the map on the hood of the squad. "Goes about another mile and then takes a sharp left."
The wheels started turning in Roy's head. "Is it possible that would stop him?"
"Sure," the worker nodded.
"But the water wouldn't," Marco mused.
"Right," the worker agreed.
"Then what the hell are we waiting for?" Chet asked impatiently, "Let's go find him!"
"Hold on, Chet," Cap told him firmly, "We need to figure out the most likely location to search."
"I'd say right here's your best bet," the worker pointed out on the map, "Right at that big bend."
Roy's stomach lurched at the thought, but he nodded firmly. "I'll take the squad up that way and start the search there."
"I'll come with you," Chet and Marco chorused.
Roy couldn't help smiling ever so slightly despite his apprehension, and Cap sighed. "Fine, go. Keep in contact with me."
"Right," Roy agreed.
They all climbed into the squad, and Roy slowly made his way to the spot the worker had pointed out on the map. There was no telling what they were going to find, but Roy was doing his best not to go immediately to the worst-case scenario.
"We're gonna find him, Roy," Chet's words echoed Roy's thoughts.
"Let's hope we're not too late," Marco replied, echoing the rest of Roy's thoughts.
Roy parked the squad, and they all climbed down, gathering equipment as they prepared to go into the storm drain. Marco lifted the manhole cover and set it aside while Roy buckled a pair of belts around himself and tied a rope tightly.
He gave both men a nod and started down the ladder that led to the storm drain. All he could hear was the sound of rushing water as he slowly and carefully made his way along the ledge. The bend should have been close by, but there was still no sign of Johnny.
Suddenly, as he approached the bend, he spotted something bright yellow, an air tank. He moved closer, and sure enough, there was Johnny, seemingly held against the bend by the sheer force of the water flowing past.
Roy carefully eased himself down and pulled out the handy-talkie. "Squad Fifty-One to Engine Fifty-One. I found him. Gonna assess him here as best I can before I try to move him."
"Ten-four, Squad Fifty-One," Cap's voice replied crisply.
Roy shoved the handy-talkie into his turnout coat and started assessing Johnny. He felt along his carotid for a pulse and found one, weak as it was. Still alive. Good. Now Roy just had to get him out of here. But how was he going to do that, not knowing the extent of Johnny's injuries? He could do serious damage if he wasn't careful.
"I'm sorry, Johnny," he told Johnny's limp form as he wrapped the belt around him and hooked it to his own, "But we've gotta get you out of here."
Now came the tricky part. Roy carefully pulled Johnny up and started dragging him along the ledge, ever mindful of the rushing water and the slippery surface. Inch by inch, step by step, Roy finally made it to the ladder, heaving from the effort.
He tugged on the rope to get the attention of the other men, and Chet's face suddenly appeared at the top. "You found him! How's he doing?"
"He's in bad shape," Roy replied tersely, "Gonna need you and Marco to help pull us up. He's nothing but dead weight."
"You've got it."
It seemed to take forever to get up that short ladder, but finally, Roy reached the top, and both Chet and Marco helped lift Johnny up and out while Roy unhooked from him.
From there Roy went on automatic pilot, doing everything he would normally do for a patient, trying to push aside his own worries. Even during the ride to the hospital, he alternated between monitoring Johnny and worrying. Johnny's helmet had been nowhere to be found. He could have a head injury. He could have any number of other injuries. He probably inhaled a whole lot of water. Pneumonia was a possibility.
It was only when Johnny was wheeled into a treatment room and Roy was pushed out that all the adrenaline left him, his stomach churning, his knees buckling as several sets of hands grabbed him and guided him to a nearby chair.
He was shaking, and he couldn't seem to stop. It wasn't just that he was cold and wet, he knew that, though that sure as hell wasn't helping matters. His mind raced as he thought about everything that had gone on up until this damn rescue.
Johnny had just been trying to help. He hadn't meant any harm. But Johnny wasn't the one that had to bear the brunt of Joanne's temper. Boy, had Joanne given him an earful. And he had given Johnny an earful in return.
God, he regretted that now. What a stupid thing to get angry over.
What if that was the last conversation they ever had? Was that how he wanted to remember Johnny?
He rested his head in his hands, letting out a long breath. Someone wrapped a blanket around him, someone else sat next to him, rubbing the back of his shoulders.
Roy sent up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening. Just let him live. Let me talk to him one more time.
# # #
Johnny's eyes flew open, his eyes adjusting to the half-light. It seemed familiar, but he knew it wasn't his apartment. It wasn't a hospital room either, and it surely should have been, considering the last thing he remembered was his body crashing hard against the concrete after having been carried down the storm drain. Unless—
A door creaked open, cutting off Johnny's thoughts. "Good morning, sleepyhead. It's time to get up. You'll be late for school."
Johnny sat up quickly, throwing the covers off. "Mom?"
His mother smiled gently, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear before leaving the bedroom, and Johnny quickly moved to follow. Everything was so familiar, and it felt so real, but there was no way it could be. It was as if it was all frozen in time, looking the way it had the last time he saw it, the last time before he'd been told of his parents' death, when he'd been told he would be sent to live with some aunt in California he had only met a couple of times.
"Sit," his mother told him, "Eat a little something."
Johnny did so, easing into a chair at the kitchen table. His mother hummed softly in that way he remembered as she poured coffee and finished fixing breakfast. Any moment his father would come into the kitchen and ruffle his hair.
"There's my boy," his father's voice boomed out as he ruffled Johnny's hair, "Almost time for a haircut."
He passed by Johnny to greet his mother at the stove, planting a kiss on her cheek before pouring himself a cup of coffee. Everything was so normal, almost as if the previous night had never happened, the raised voices that had awakened Johnny when his father had come home late and started in on his mother for some reason Johnny didn't understand.
But that hadn't really happened, not here. Johnny wasn't sure where the memory had come from. He'd barely thought about those nights in years, only in brief flashes when he came upon a scene when people were arguing with each other, when that tension grabbed at his shoulders and nearly made him freeze and forget what he was doing.
"Mom?" Johnny asked tentatively.
His mother turned from the stove. "Yes, Johnny?"
"Why am I here?"
His mother looked baffled. "This is your home. Why else would you be here?"
"I…well, you see…" Johnny trailed off, trying to figure out how to explain this.
His mother served him a bowl of oatmeal and joined him at the table. Johnny took a bite, but it tasted even blander than he remembered, the texture resembling paste.
"Eat up, Johnny," his father told him, "It'll make you big and strong."
Johnny's stomach turned at the thought, but he tried to eat. Anything not to set his father off again.
His father gave him a disapproving look before he finished his coffee and rose from the table. "Don't wait up for me. I'll be working late."
That filled Johnny with dread. That meant another night of his father coming home late, loud and angry, his words slurring together. He glanced up at his mother, who merely regarded his father's words with a resigned expression. "Of course. I'll keep supper warm for you."
Why? Johnny thought, he'll only yell that it's not hot enough or it's not what he wanted and why can't you do anything right?
He pushed back the bowl. "I've gotta go."
"Johnny, wait!" his mother called out to him, but Johnny ignored her, rushing toward the front door with the intention of flinging it open. Only the knob refused to turn, no matter how many times Johnny wiggled it.
He tugged at the knob before peering out the glass at the top of the door. Beyond the door wasn't the dusty yard that Johnny remembered, but what looked like Rampart.
Some of the faces were familiar, his crewmates, a couple of nurses, and a figure that was huddled under a blanket and shaking. Was that…was that Roy? Why would Roy be here?
None of this made sense. Johnny's past and present were clashing in ways he couldn't understand. Something had to have happened, something that left him somewhere between his past and his present.
He tried the doorknob again, but it wasn't budging. There had to be a reason. There had to be.
"Roy?" he called out, rapping his knuckles against the glass. "Roy! Over here! You've gotta get me out of here! I'm trapped!"
Johnny felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face whoever that hand was attached to. It was his mother, again, that same gentle smile on her face.
"Mom, what's happening?" Johnny asked, unable to keep the panic out of his voice, "Why can't I leave?"
His mother's expression sobered, and she laid both hands on his shoulders, grasping him gently. "You can't leave, not yet."
"But why?" Johnny was still trying to understand, "Where am I?"
"You're home."
"No, I'm not," Johnny insisted, wresting free of his mother's grasp, "You're dead. So's Dad. I'm supposed to be out there. What the hell is going on?!"
His mother took hold of him once again, her eyes meeting his with an intensity he couldn't remember seeing before. "You can't leave yet. You have to wait."
"Wait?" Johnny was even more confused, "Wait for what?"
Something else occurred to him. "Am I…am I dying?"
His mother looked pained at that, and something clutched deep inside Johnny's chest as he grabbed his mother's arms and shook her. "Mom, you have to answer me. Am I dying?"
"I can not say," she responded calmly.
Johnny racked his brain trying to understand. There was a reason he was somehow in between his past and his present. If only he could figure out why that was.
Suddenly, something clicked. He'd experienced instances of unconsciousness before, but they'd been brief, and he could only vaguely recall being back here in this house in those instances. But he'd always been able to find his way back.
This time was different, and an awful feeling washed over him. "I'm not dead."
"No, you're not dead."
"But I'm…I'm not really here."
His surroundings suddenly changed, and Johnny could hear the steady beep beep beep of a monitor, the whoosh whoosh whoosh of…that wasn't just oxygen. That was a ventilator. He was being kept alive by the miracle of modern medicine. But was he really alive, or were they just delaying the inevitable?
Roy was at his bedside, his hands wrapped around one of Johnny's, talking quietly, though Johnny couldn't quite make out what he was saying.
"Roy, you're gonna have to speak up," Johnny told him, "I can't hardly hear you."
"He can't hear you," his mother's voice was right behind him.
"But I can hear him," Johnny argued.
"Yes."
"But I can't tell him."
"That's right."
"I need to talk to him," Johnny insisted, "I need to let him know I'm…that I'm still here."
He tried to wriggle free of Roy's grasp but found it nearly impossible. Roy had a good grasp on Johnny's hand, so instead Johnny settled for trying to move his fingers, something, anything to let Roy know he was still here, still very much alive, to not give up on him yet.
"I'm here, Roy," Johnny whispered, "I'm still here."
# # #
Roy sat at Johnny's bedside in the ICU, the monitors and the ventilator the only sounds in the room. Johnny looked nothing like himself, swallowed up by the neck brace and the plaster casts and the traction devices, the bruising on his face reflecting what surely covered the rest of his body.
He only had a few minutes to visit with him, and he barely knew what to say. What could you say to someone who couldn't respond, someone who possibly would never respond again?
The extent of the damage wasn't yet clear. Johnny was being kept in an induced coma to allow his body time to heal before his condition was further evaluated. He'd taken in a lot of water, Roy knew that, and pneumonia was still a major risk, even as the emergency room team had been able to expel a good deal of that water in the course of stabilizing him.
"I'm sorry, Johnny," Roy told him quietly, wrapping his hands around Johnny's one free hand, "I should've kept a better eye on you. We're supposed to be a team, and I wasn't a very good teammate."
Roy took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. "And you know what? Forget about the spaghetti. You were right. Joanne made Stoker's and thought it was better than hers, too."
He'd give anything to hear Johnny crow about that. And he surely would if he could. Instead, he was hooked up to a bunch of machines that were keeping him alive, if his current condition could even be called that.
In the midst of his reverie, Roy felt something move in his hands, and his head jerked up at the sensation. "Johnny?"
He didn't feel another movement, and Roy figured he was probably imagining it. There was no way Johnny would be able to respond to him, not in his current state, though the doctor had told him to keep talking to Johnny, that there was a possibility Johnny could hear him, even if he couldn't respond.
"Visiting time is up," a nurse sternly told him.
Roy released Johnny's hand and set it back on the bed, laying his own over it for a moment. "I'll see you again soon, Johnny, okay? Just hang in there. Please."
Silence was the only response, and so Roy turned to leave the ICU. Joanne was waiting for him out in the waiting area, and he wrapped his arms around her to hold her tight.
"No change," Roy told her quietly, "Thought I felt him move, but I think I just imagined it."
Joanne pulled back, taking Roy's hands in hers. "Maybe he can hear you, and maybe that's how he let you know."
Roy wanted to believe that, but he shook his head. "Probably just my mind playing tricks on me."
They left the hospital, and Joanne drove them home in silence. Roy could only keep replaying the conversation that had dragged out over the course of the day, right up until that damn storm drain rescue.
Those damn kids. What the hell were they doing in that drain, anyway? If those damn kids hadn't gone down in there in the first place—
No, Roy couldn't blame the kids. They were just doing what kids did, exploring the world around them. He'd done the same as a kid himself, and he was sure Johnny had, too, though he didn't often talk much about his childhood. Roy figured there was probably a reason for that, but he hadn't bothered to dig too deeply into it. Maybe if they worked together long enough, he'd say more.
That is, if he survived this.
Roy was barely aware that they were home until Joanne shut off the car. They sat in silence for what felt like ages until Joanne took his hand. "This wasn't your fault, Roy. None of this was your fault."
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Roy replied quietly, "Christ, Jo, he was right behind me. I should've known something was wrong. He never would've left me behind like that."
He fell silent, not wanting to think about all the 'what-ifs' that wouldn't quit running through his head. Instead, he sighed heavily and squeezed Joanne's hand. "Suppose we'd better give your sister some relief, huh?"
Joanne squeezed his hand lightly in response, and they both climbed out of the car and started toward the house. Joanne's sister greeted them with a finger to her lips. "They just fell asleep not too long ago."
"Thanks," Roy replied quietly, "I'll just go check in on them real quick."
He left Joanne and her sister and made his way toward the kids' bedrooms, stopping at Jenny's door first, slowly opening the door so it wouldn't squeak too much.
She was sleeping peacefully on her stomach, her fist shoved in her mouth. Not a baby anymore, as she constantly reminded Roy, but still his baby. Would she remember Johnny at all, the way he would toss her up in the air and catch her, the way he'd give her piggyback rides in the living room? Would she remember the way she'd laugh and squeal in delight?
Roy shook off the thought. Johnny wasn't dead, not yet. There was no point in thinking otherwise.
He closed Jenny's door and moved on to Chris's room, doing the same. Chris was sprawled across the bed, half uncovered, and Roy moved to pull the covers back over him. Chris shifted to his side away from Roy, and Roy briefly smoothed his hand over his son's head. Chris would remember a little more about Johnny than Jenny would, Roy knew that. But those memories would fade in time.
Good grief, he needed to stop doing this to himself. Johnny was in rough shape, but he was young and tough. He'd pull through. He had to.
Roy left Chris's room, quietly closing the door behind him. He could hear Joanne and her sister talking briefly as he walked down the hallway to the living room, and he appeared just as she was leaving.
Joanne greeted him with a hug, and he responded in kind, holding her for a long moment. What would he do without her? Roy couldn't imagine.
"I assume the kids are asleep?" Joanne asked.
"Yeah," Roy answered, "Just needed to see for myself, I guess."
Joanne pulled back slightly, rubbing Roy's arms. "Let's get you to bed. It's been a long day."
They soon settled in for the night, and long after Joanne fell asleep, Roy lay awake, unable to stop thinking about Johnny lying in that hospital bed, unresponsive.
It might not have been Roy's fault, but it had been his responsibility to look out for Johnny, and he'd failed.
Another night, another silent prayer sent up to whoever might be listening. Let him live. Let him be okay.
# # #
Johnny shifted around under the blankets. They felt so heavy, almost to the point where he couldn't move. He was hot. He was cold. He couldn't get comfortable. He was tired, so tired.
Finally, a cool hand touched his forehead. He glanced up to see his mother's worried frown.
"I don't feel good," he told her.
"You've got a bit of a fever," she answered, "I'm sure it's nothing."
Johnny started shivering again, tugging the covers over himself as best he could. Suddenly he heard other voices, too, along with the sounds of a monitor.
"Temperature's elevated."
"Any allergies on his chart?"
"None listed."
Wait, no, that's not right, Johnny wanted to tell them. He'd had a bad reaction to something the last time he'd been given an antibiotic, but he couldn't remember what it was.
He was burning up again, and he tried to throw off the covers, but something was preventing him from doing so. "Mom? Mom! Help!"
"Shh, it's okay," his mother's voice soothed him, "Here, take this. You'll start feeling better in no time."
Johnny opened his mouth, and two tablets landed in his mouth. He started chewing, the chalky orange flavor instantly familiar.
"There you go," his mother stroked his hair before folding down the covers, "How's that?"
Johnny tried to swallow but ended up choking and coughing. His lungs felt as if they were on fire. What was happening?
"Sit up," his mother told him, helping him sit upright with a hand on his back. She started rubbing in slow circles as Johnny tried to catch his breath.
"The water," Johnny suddenly realized, "All that water I breathed in. Probably caused pneumonia."
His mother didn't seem to hear him, simply continuing to rub his back. That heavy feeling started to take over again, and Johnny wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep.
She took him into her arms, holding him close, and Johnny swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions from spilling over. He could hear her humming that little song, the same one she always did when she would comfort him after a bad dream or when he was sick.
It wasn't long before he felt himself relaxing, his eyelids slowly drifting closed. He was feeling a little better, no longer going through the constant cycle of hot and cold. If only he could stay here for just a little longer, long enough to tell his mother how much he missed her, how often he still thought of her.
"There, that's better now, isn't it?" His mother gently laid him back down and covered him up, "You just rest now. You'll feel better in the morning. I love you."
Johnny blinked and swallowed hard, brushing at his eyes. "I love you, too."
He lay there for what seemed like ages, vaguely hearing the sounds of the ventilator and the monitors in the background, absently scratching at a spot on his arm. It didn't seem to do much good, as the spot started spreading and the itching only seemed to intensify.
Before he could say anything, he heard voices in the room again, but he couldn't quite make them out. "…allergic reaction…push diphenhydramine…are you sure there weren't any allergies on his chart?"
His mother was at his side again, a familiar smell hitting his nose. Calamine lotion. "There, there, you're going to be okay," she spoke softly as she rubbed the lotion in all over.
"Bad reaction," Johnny explained, "Probably the antibiotic."
His mother nodded. "I had to remind the doctor not to give you amoxicillin again. He kept forgetting to write it down."
That was it. "Think they forgot to write it down, too."
His mother smiled as she capped the bottle and set it on the nightstand. "How's that?"
"Better."
"Good," his mother once again set her hand on his forehead before smoothing it over his hair, "Your fever's down, too. You'll be right as rain in the morning."
She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Sleep tight, haloka."
Beloved. Johnny hadn't been called that in so long. "Night, Mom."
She smiled ever so slightly as she closed the bedroom door, and Johnny let out a heavy sigh. He couldn't stay here, though he badly wanted to. No, he had to somehow get through this, get back where he belonged, even if it meant he'd be in pain for a while.
In the meantime, however, he'd rest.
# # #
Roy took a seat at Johnny's bedside, taking his hand and curving his fingers around it, squeezing lightly. "Hi, Johnny. Heard you've had a rough last few days. They wouldn't let me come see you. Guess you're doing better now that you're on the right antibiotic. Idiots. They could've killed you."
There was no response, but then again, Roy didn't expect one. He hadn't gotten one since that one instance. He had long since come to the conclusion that he'd imagined it.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. "They're gonna try and pull you out of this coma soon. Guess we'll see if you're really brain damaged or not. I don't want you to worry about anything. We'll take good care of you, for as long as it takes, okay?"
The nurse came in, and Roy paused for a moment. She gave him a quick smile, and Roy hoped he managed one in response. "I'm just talking at him, I guess. I don't know if it's doing any good."
"It can't hurt," the nurse replied, "There's so much we don't know about the brain. He might be able to hear you even if he can't respond."
"That's what I've heard," Roy answered, glancing at Johnny, "So, uh, you're gonna pull him out of this coma pretty soon, huh?"
"Possibly," the nurse responded, "But just so you know, it's not like the movies. He won't wake up and start talking instantly. He'll still be a little disoriented, and it'll be a while before he's fully verbal."
If he's verbal at all, Roy thought darkly.
The nurse gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to prepare you."
"No, it's okay," Roy assured her, "I appreciate it. Just worried about him, that's all."
"I know you are," the nurse replied, "You've been here nearly every day."
"He doesn't have a lot of family," Roy told her, "Been trying to keep his aunt updated, but you know, there's not much to report."
"Maybe that'll change soon," the nurse responded.
"Maybe."
The nurse left, and Roy continued talking to Johnny, telling him about the rescues he'd been part of, the patients they'd had, the goings-on at the station.
It didn't feel as if he'd been there all that long before the nurse came around again. "Visiting time is up."
"I know," Roy sighed heavily and squeezed Johnny's hand one more time, "They're kicking me out again. I'll see you soon."
He thought he felt something, but decided he was only imagining things again. He nodded to the nurse as he started out of the room. "You'll let me know when he comes out of it, right?"
"Yes, we'll keep you updated."
"Thanks."
Roy left the room, feeling no better than he had when he'd come in. As he'd been doing all along, he'd just have to wait and see.
Just let him come out of this okay, Roy sent up his usual silent prayer, for all the good it might do. Just let him be okay.
# # #
Johnny opened his eyes as the morning light filtered into the room. He was feeling much better, and he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed before sliding down and starting toward the kitchen.
His mother greeted him with her usual warm smile. "Good morning. I told you you'd be right as rain, didn't I? Are you hungry?"
"Kinda."
"Sit," his mother told him firmly, "Breakfast is almost ready."
A glass of milk and a bowl of steaming oatmeal were set in front of him. Something was different about all of this, though he couldn't put his finger on why.
"I put some brown sugar and cinnamon in it today," his mother told him, "Just the way you like it."
Johnny took a bite, though it still seemed to have little flavor, the texture like paste. He managed to swallow, nodding in response. "It's good."
It occurred to him that someone was missing. "Where's Dad?"
His mother looked pained. "Oh, he had to go to work early, that's all."
It was odd, the little lies his mother told. Of course, Johnny hadn't known they were lies at the time, but now he could put the pieces together. "Mom, do you love Dad?"
"Of course I do," his mother answered as she sat at the table with her coffee.
"Does he love you?"
His mother again looked pained before smiling slightly. "You ask the oddest questions sometimes. Yes, I think he does."
"Then why-?" Johnny stopped himself. He wasn't going to get the answers he sought. Better not to ask.
His mother lifted her head. "You'd better hurry. You're going to be late."
"Late?" Johnny repeated, "Late for what?"
His mother shrugged and drank her coffee. Johnny was confused but continued to eat, even though it felt like the oatmeal was getting stuck in his throat. He coughed and choked, reaching for the glass of milk.
"Slow down," his mother chided him, "You always wolf down your food. It's not good for your digestion."
"Sorry," Johnny managed to answer between coughs. Whatever was stuck in his throat wouldn't leave, and it was driving him nuts.
His mind slowly made the connection. The respirator. He was still on the respirator. That's why he felt like he was choking. Was he—
"Mom, I've gotta go," he blurted out.
He rose from his chair and started toward the door, the same door he'd tried and failed to open before. Beyond the door, he could see a team of doctors and nurses surrounding him. Roy was at his bedside, watching him.
Johnny looked over his shoulder. His mother was right behind him, that gentle smile never leaving her face. No, he couldn't leave, not yet.
He turned toward her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. "I love you."
"I love you, too," she replied softly, "Go. You'll be late."
"Right."
He reached for the doorknob and tried once again to turn it. This time it turned easily, and he paused for a long moment, once again looking over his shoulder.
His mother waved him off with one hand. "Go."
Johnny opened the door and stepped out into the blinding light. When he turned to close the door behind him, it was already gone.
His surroundings changed, though he wasn't entirely sure where he was. The monitor was beeping more loudly than he remembered, he was coughing and choking again as something was pulled from his throat, everything was too loud and too bright, he tried to keep his eyes closed.
"That's it, John," a soothing voice told him, "You're doing just fine. Breathe nice and deep."
He managed to do so, no longer feeling as if he were choking. No, he wasn't back in the storm drain, and he wasn't back at his childhood home. Now he was starting to get some idea where he was. Rampart. ICU, probably.
Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, though it was painful at first until they adjusted. Maybe it wasn't as bright as he thought it was. Okay, this wasn't so bad.
"Hey there," Roy's voice was suddenly right next to him, and Johnny tried to turn his head to follow it, "Welcome back."
I'm here, Roy, Johnny wanted to tell him, I'm here. I'm okay.
"Don't try to talk," Roy told him, taking his hand and squeezing firmly, "You've had a rough time. But you're gonna be okay."
Johnny tried to squeeze back but could barely muster the strength. It didn't matter. He was back where he belonged. Right now, that was enough.