Chapter Twelve

As the morning dragged on, Tony spent some time reading to Jonathan from Reptile Weekly. Then Sam went in for a while to complain about her book report, begging the boy to wake up so that he could write it for her. "I'll pay you," she bargained. "I've got fifteen founding fathers on hand, and they're all yours if you do this for me." Jonathan continued to breathe in steady silence, and Samantha sighed. "Okay, you drive a hard bargain, but I'll your chores for a week, too." No response. "Come on, Jonathan, I'm dying, here!"

Angela, seated at her son's bedside, gave the girl a pat on the back. "I'm afraid it's going to be a while before he's up to that."

"Samantha, honey, give it up," said Tony from the doorway.

"You know, they did make that book into a movie, Sam," Paulette piped up.

Sam's eyes gleamed with interest. "A movie?"

"Yeah, it was pretty faithful to the book." said Paulette. "And Gregory Peck was positively scrumptious in it, if you like the tall, dark and handsome type."

Sam grinned. "You don't say?"

"Ay-oh, oh-ay, that's quite enough of that!" Tony dragged his daughter from the room in abject fear. The only thing he hated more than his daughter neglecting her education was his daughter showing an interest in good-looking guys.

As the door slammed shut, Paulette looked chagrined. "Sorry, I didn't mean to overstep."

"Oh, Tony's not mad at you, he just doesn't like to see her growing up," Angela reassured her. "I think it might do her good to watch the movie. Not instead of reading the book, but in addition to it, as a guide and visual reference. I'll swing by the video store when I get a chance and see if they have it in stock. Great idea, really."

Dr. Dennison appeared in Jonathan's room at ten on the dot. Angela and Jonathan had recently finished up with Tom Sawyer and she had just started the prologue of Frankenstein. Michael was standing by the window, alternating between staring out of it and staring at their son. "How's everyone doing?" he asked. "Our patient still behaving himself, Paulette?"

"He's been more or less stable all morning," Paulette reported. "His blood pressure dipped a little low when I first came on shift, but it came right back up after his last round of fluids. I think he was just a bit dehydrated."

Dr. Dennison nodded. "If he still needs intravenous fluids after today, I'll increase them." He turned to Angela and Michael. "Well, this is it, folks. The drugs won't leave his system all at once, so this is going to be a gradual process. If he wakes up disoriented, or fails to respond, or doesn't wake up at all, try not to panic." He looked directly at Michael during the last part. "There's a good chance it will be temporary. It's not like in the soap operas, where the coma patient wakes up, kisses his girlfriend and immediately runs to the courthouse to testify against the person who injured him."

"Speaking of soap operas, could you give this speech to Tony? And Samantha, too?" Angela requested.

Dr. Dennison smiled. "Of course. Did you have any questions?"

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Angela wanted to know.

"The best thing you can do is exactly what you've been doing. Touching him, talking to him, providing stimulation for his brain. If and when he regains consciousness, we're going to need your help to get him alert and oriented, and to determine whether there are any abnormalities in his behavior and personality." The doctor looked to Michael. "Michael, did you have any questions for me?"

"How soon will we know? I mean, whether he's going to be normal again."

Dr. Dennison lifted an eyebrow. "If by normal, you mean exactly the same as he used to be, I can just about guarantee you that he won't be. If by normal, you mean happy, well-adjusted and making the most out of the bad hand he's been dealt, I can just about guarantee you that he will be. If he has the love and support of his family."

Michael nodded unhappily. "I understand."

Do you? Angela wanted to ask, though she kept her mouth politely shut. The doctor gave Jonathan a cursory examination, looking over his wounds and checking under his helmet. He seemed to approve of what he saw. "I've got to go check on some other patients. Paulette, page me as soon as you see any change."

After that little encounter, Michael spent the next hour watching Jonathan like a bomb that was due to explode. It was a relief, in more than one way, when Tony appeared in the doorway. "Hey, Jonathan, guess what I just found down in the gift shop?" He produced a comic book. "The latest issue of Ant-Man!"

"Jonathan doesn't like comic books," Michael protested.

"He never used to, but he reconsidered after he found out how many of them are bug-related." She shook her head ruefully. Samantha had lost interest in her comic book collection around the same time she'd discovered her interest in fashion, make-up and boys. Eager for more closet space, she'd decided to ditch all but her top three favorite franchises: Batman, Wonder Woman, and the X-Men. She'd offered Jonathan three dollars and twelve cents to clean the rest out of her closet, and upon discovering the likes of Spiderman, the Fly, and Blue Beetle, the boy been hooked.

"Do you wanna read it to him, Michael?" Tony offered, his face neutral but his voice a bit strained. "Or would you rather take a break and let me?"

Michael gratefully took the hint. "Why don't you? I could use another coffee." He fled from the room like Speedy Gonzalez. Paulette breathed a covert sigh of relief as Tony came in to take his place.

"How's Samantha doing?" Angela asked as he pulled up a chair beside her.

"Just about done with her reading." He chuckled. "Though I've had to shoo her back to it a couple of times. You know, the little boy in 8H who's under quarantine for antibiotic-resistant meningitis? I keep finding her with her mug mashed up against his window, making goofy faces at the kid."

"Jamie probably loved that. His mother mentioned he's been bored to tears." She reached for her tote bag. "That reminds me. I brought him some old toys and books of Jonathan's."

"Angela, she was saying anything he touches is going to have to be boiled and bleached, or disposed of as a biohazard," he reminded her.

"Oh, I know. That's why she didn't want to bring in anything of Jamie's. But these aren't things that I was keeping out of sentimental value. They're things Jonathan didn't use much, or at all, which is why they're still in good shape. I was going to haul them off to Goodwill—"

"By which you mean you were gonna have me haul them to Goodwill," said Tony knowingly.

She gave him a dirty look, but couldn't deny it. "Precisely, but I kept forgetting to ask you, and they'll do more good keeping a sick child occupied for a while. Even if they only see a few days' use before they fall apart in a tub of bleach. Tony, do you still have those paper grocery bags we brought the food in, folded up in your pockets for reuse?"

"My frugality is no one's business but my own!" Tony barked at her defensively.

"Indoor voice, Tony," Paulette reminded him.

"I'm not attacking your frugality, I want one of those bags!" Losing all patience, Angela reached into his coat pocket and rummaged around until she found one. "I can't take them to Jamie directly, because, well, quarantine. So I'm just going to put them in a bag and leave them by his door."

"Better write a note, too, so his mom understands we don't expect or want them back." Tony made a face.

Angela stacked the toys neatly in the bag—a couple of handheld water games, travel Candy Land, some Tinker Toys, a few toy cars, and a stuffed dog in mint condition, who had clearly never been handled by a child in his life. Dear Jamie, these toys have never been played with and I think they're getting lonely. They're yours now, so be a dear and try to show them a good time, she jotted on a piece of paper begged from the nurses' desk. Careful not to sign her name, she laid the note at the top of the bag and sat it beside the red-flagged door of room 8H before quickly returning to her son's side.

She took his hand in one of hers and lay her head against Tony's shoulder as he narrated the latest adventures of Scott Lang. The words didn't make much sense to her, but the sound of his voice was soothing, as was the warmth of Jonathan's hand.

"Tony, stop," Paulette suddenly instructed, quickly rising to her feet and racing to the other side of Jonathan's bed.

"What, you don't like my Yellowjacket voice?" Tony was clearly offended. "Look, there's a reason I read her like that. The way I see it, she's had that lisp since she was a little girl, and getting bullied for it was part of the reason she grew bitter and turned to evil—"

"Shh!" Angela whispered urgently. "Look at Jonathan!" She could see now what had spurred Paulette into action. His eyes were open. Just a crack, his lids still heavy with sleep. But the eyes underneath were flicking around the room, taking in his surroundings. She squeezed the little hand in her own and stood up to get a better look at his face. "Good morning, sleepyhead!"

"Yeah, welcome back to the land of the living, buddy!" said Tony, patting the boy's knee. "We sure missed you."

Jonathan didn't respond, his eyes falling shut again. The door kept swinging open behind them, over and over. Dr. Dennison came rushing in, then Samantha, then Michael, along with a parade of nurses and nurse aides. Angela put the arm not in Jonathan's feeble grasp around Samantha, but barely noticed anyone else. She squeezed her son's hand and when he very faintly squeezed back, tears of relief began to pour down her cheeks. "He squeezed my hand."

"Atta boy, Jonathan!" said Tony, sounding a little choked up himself.

Sam nudged his shoulder. "Don't you nod off again, squirt! You've had enough napping for one lifetime!"

Dr. Dennison took a penlight from his front pocket. "Angela, ask him to open his eyes."

"Jonathan, honey, could you open your eyes one more time? The doctor needs to look at them."

Jonathan's eyelids slowly crept upward again, twitching with effort. She didn't even want to think about how hard it must have been for him. Dr. Dennison shined the penlight into Jonathan's eyes, and her son immediately shut his eyes with an indignant snuffle. The doctor chuckled. "Sorry, kiddo. I never liked that part of the exam, either." He put away his penlight and removed his patient's oxygen mask. "My name is Dr. Dennison. Can you tell me your name?"

Sam raised her eyebrows. "You know his name."

"I know. I want to see if he does."

Ordinarily, Jonathan would have taken immediate offense at the notion of there being anything he didn't know; particularly something as mundane as his name. But today, he simply stared at the doctor in silence. "Please, sweetheart, won't you at least try?" Angela cajoled him. "Come on, you can do it!"

"Unless you can't," said Tony. "And if you can't, no pressure or nothing. We'll wait until you're ready."

"This is ridiculous," said Michael, shoving past Dr. Dennison. "My son can talk. Of course he can!"

"Michael, try to calm down," said the doctor gently.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Michael barked indignantly. "And quit talking to my son like he's an idiot! He's one of the smartest kids in his school, and he makes straight A's every year!"

"Michael, no one's insulting Jonathan's intelligence, but we need to ascertain the extent of the brain damage—"

"My son's not brain-damaged!" Michael took Jonathan by the shoulders and shook him. "Tell them, little tiger. Tell them you're fine! Tell them!"

"Hey, take your hands off the kid, pal!" said Tony, scurrying around Jonathan's bed to yank him away from the ailing child.

"For the love of God, Michael, he has a spinal injury! Stop shaking him!" Angela hollered, slapping his hands away as he reached out for Jonathan again.

Michael finally quit fighting Tony's grasp, blinking uncertainly, as though he were the one who had just come out of a coma. "Sorry." Looking properly chagrined, he put his hands behind his back, as if afraid of what they might do if they got near Jonathan again, and bolted from the room. Dr. Dennison and his nursing staff all looked collectively relieved.

Tony muttered some curse in Italian under his breath, coming back to her side. Angela elbowed him, not wanting the kids to pick up the use of profanity in any language. "Sorry about that, sweetheart. Your father's been very worried about you, just like the rest of us. He flew all the way out from California to see how you were for himself." She instinctively reached up to smooth back his hair, as she usually did when comforting her son, but her hand landed on the brain injury helmet and she remembered his hair was gone. She moved her hand down to pat his cheek instead. "Can you tell us how you're feeling?"

Jonathan's only response was to screw his face up like a bulldog pup. She knew that face. That was the face he made when he was hurting. "Sweetheart, are you in pain?"

"No, he was hit by a truck five days ago, and he's feeling just dandy." Tony rolled his eyes. She elbowed him again. This was a serious moment.

"Your throat hurts, doesn't it, squirt? That's why you don't want to talk?" Samantha suddenly realized. "Dad, remember the big hose the paramedics stuck down his throat when he wasn't breathing? They were in a big hurry and weren't being real gentle. His throat is probably all banged up."

"That's right," Dr. Dennison mused. "I forgot that he'd been intubated shortly before he came into my care. Tracheal tubes do pass through the vocal cords."

"The tube was removed post-surgery on Tuesday morning," Paulette reminded him. "It's very likely he does have some bruising in there."

"Jonathan, are you listening?" Angela asked, looking intently into her son's eyes. "If you can hear us, and we're right about why you're not talking, blink your eyes twice."

Two blinks, in rapid succession. Tony clapped and cheered as if their—her son had just hit a home run. Sam smiled, a little smugly. Angela threw her arms around the girl in gratitude.

"Just to make sure that wasn't a fluke, ask him some other questions. Anything he should normally know will work," Dr. Dennison prompted.

"Jonathan, is your iguana's name Pugsley?" Angela tried. "One blink for no, two for yes."

Jonathan's lids slowly closed, then opened again. She took his hand again, smiling so broadly her cheeks ached. "Is his name Spike?"

Two blinks.

"Jonathan, are your buddies Wink and Blink dung beetles?" Tony asked him next

Angela wrinkled her nose. "They'd better not be, I don't want any dung beetles in our home, thank you very much." Sam giggled and nodded in agreement.

One blink.

"Are they hive beetles?" Tony persisted.

One blink.

"How about rhinoceros beetles?"

Two blinks.

Then Sam leaned over the head of his bed. "Hey Jonathan, is your favorite comic book hero Batman?"

One blink.

"Oh, that's right. Batman's my favorite. Yours is Spiderman, right?"

Two blinks.

Tony's arms came around her and Samantha, and every face in the room was smiling. Except for Jonathan's. "Get this young man some extra-strength chloraseptic spray," he instructed Paulette. "Jonathan, I'm going to name some body parts. If the place I name is hurting, blink twice. Head?"

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut twice. Very tightly, as if to emphasize the point.

"Okay, looks like the head's hurting pretty bad. Blink once if it hurts a little, twice if it hurts bad, and three times if it's really, really bad." Three more demure flutters of Jonathan's eyelashes followed. He seemed a little less frantic, now that he knew they understood. Angela kissed his forehead, as if the massive injury were a scraped knee. It was ridiculous, but it was all she could think of.

Tony reached out to give Jonathan's arm a squeeze. "I ain't surprised, buddy. I've taken a few painful headshots myself, during my boxing days, but I never went toe-to-toe with a speeding truck!"

"The bad news is, your new bike's a total loss," Sam reported. "The good news is, your mom's gone soft right now and I think she can be convinced to replace it with the telescope you originally wanted. If you strike while the iron is hot and ask for it." Angela hugged Sam tighter and nodded reassuringly at her son.

Dr. Dennison turned to one of the aides. "Could you tell Paulette he needs a shot of Tylenol with codeine? We'll start him with five mL's."

"IV?" the aide asked.

"Yes, please." He peeked into Jonathan's mouth, looking down his throat with the little penlight, wincing in sympathy when he saw the swelling and bruising inside. "It's going to be a while before he's up for oral medication. Even the liquid kind. In fact, make it ten mL's." He glanced at Tony and Angela. "One has to be careful with opiates, where head trauma is concerned. We want to stimulate mental activity, rather than subduing it. But honestly, pain isn't good for him, either. Especially given his other injuries. If his pulse and blood pressure go shooting through the roof, he could pop a suture and start bleeding again."

"We trust your judgment, Dr. Dennison," said Angela. She was relieved he'd made the call he had. If it was a choice between Jonathan losing consciousness again for a while, or watching him lie there in agony without the capacity to scream, she would take the former.

"Hear that, buddy? You're getting the good stuff," she heard Tony say conspiratorially.

After Paulette returned with the requested medication, she and the good doctor spent the next two hours going over Jonathan with a fine-tooth comb. Even with the chloraseptic and the pain shot, Jonathan still couldn't make a sound, but through more yes and no conversations with his eyelids, they determined that he was experiencing severe pain in his punctured lung, and every breath was agonizing for him. Probably another reason he was having trouble talking. His broken ribs were hurting, for which Tony apologized incessantly. He was having trouble moving, and below his mid-trunk, he had no feeling. His eyes were both working, but he'd lost hearing in his left ear. Then the doctor administered a pop quiz of sorts, asking questions about the year and who the president was.

"It's clear that he understands what we're saying," the doctor concluded. "And he's responsive to different tones and frequencies. I think we can most likely rule out any major damage to his auditory processing centers. The structure of the ear seems to be unharmed. That leads me to believe that there's been damage to his auditory nerve. If it hasn't been completely severed, auditory-verbal therapy may be able to restore some of his hearing."

"What's auditory-verbal therapy?" Sam asked before Angela could.

"Sort of like speech therapy, but it focuses on both listening and speaking skills. I'll need to get an MRI of his head to find out whether it's worth trying. But I think that's best saved for tomorrow. Right now, he's disoriented enough without being shoved into a dark metal tube."

"What about his legs, doc? And the other stuff he can't feel or move?" Tony wanted to know. "Will he get any of that back, do you think?"

"It's a very similar situation to the ear and the auditory nerve, really. As long as the spinal cord hasn't been totally severed, he could potentially regain some or even all of his mobility, with the right course of treatment. When he got his last MRI, the swelling was too severe for me to say, one way or the other. Now that it's gone down, I should be able to get a clearer picture. But again, I think it's best we give him some time to get his bearings, first. And I really would prefer not to have him leave the unit until we're sure he's going to remain stable and conscious."

"He seems pretty together, mentally," Angela observed. "That's not just wishful thinking, is it?"

"Heck no," scoffed Tony. "He's all there. I can see it in his eyes."

"Whatever brains he ever had to begin with, anyway," Sam teased. Jonathan's brows furrowed in a scowl. It was the most overt reaction they'd seen out of him yet. "Ooh, now he's angry! Come on, Jonathan! Get out of that bed and pop me one, just like Dad showed you!" She put up her dukes playfully. Jonathan's fingers twitched, as if he were trying to curl them into a fist but couldn't quite manage it.

"He's trying," Angela reported. Sam's tough love seemed to be doing him good.

"Rome wasn't built in a day, pal-o-mine," said Tony.

"Keep working on it, kid. I'll give you a rematch when you're well enough," Sam promised.

Dr. Dennison gave Jonathan a nod. "Listen to your family. You've made a good start, son. Don't try to do everything at once. And no, Angela, it's not wishful thinking on your part. I don't know him like you all do, but the fact that he's responding to stimuli immediately upon waking is an extremely good sign. I want to keep him here for another day or two, just to be safe. But if he keeps up the good work, I think he'll be ready to transfer to pediatrics after that."

"Hear that, sweetheart?" said Angela proudly. "You're graduating."

"I've gotta go tell Mona the good news," Tony remembered.

"I should probably go find your father, Jonathan, and let him know, too," Angela remembered. She gave her son's hand one last squeeze. "Samantha, can you stay and keep him company until we get back?"

"Sure." Sam took the chair Angela had vacated. "I'll bring him up to speed on the accident and how he ended up here. Squirt, you should have seen it! The jerk who was driving the truck got you so hard he broke your bike helmet! The cops figured he had to be doing fifty or sixty miles an hour…"

Angela wasn't sure Sam should be reliving such an unhappy memory, but on the other hand, maybe it would do her good to talk about it. Tony held her hand in polite silence until they were safely out of Jonathan's hearing. As soon as they stepped out into the hall, though, they fell into each other's arms. Laughing, crying, exchanging a series of clumsy and badly-aimed kisses. "He didn't forget who we are," she exulted. "That was the one thing I was most afraid of."

"I wasn't worried about that," said Tony. "Like my soaps always said, amnesia's usually temporary. I'm just glad he's still got his marbles. Jonathan's a brainiac. His mind's the most important thing in the world to him. As long as he's got that, I think he can handle anything else that life throws at him."

"And you heard what the doctor said. There's a good chance he'll get back at least some of what he's lost." She was eager to see what his MRIs would show, tomorrow. While she respected Dr. Dennison's decision not to shove a freshly-awakened coma patient into a big metal coffin, she was impatient to learn more about the extent of the damage and what they could expect. She would feel a lot better once she was able to start making plans.

"You know Jonathan. Such an overachiever. If there's a chance to improve, you can bet he'll take it," said Tony with no small amount of pride.

She gave him one last kiss. It was such a relief not to be alone in all of this. To have someone at her side who loved and believed in her son the same way she did. Especially after the way Michael had fallen apart. "I need to go find Michael."

Tony's eyes darkened. "Yeah, I think you'd better be the one to bring him up to speed. If I see him right now, I just might punch him in the face."

"He didn't mean to hurt Jonathan." And thankfully, Jonathan didn't seem to have been harmed by his father's frantic shaking. If he had, she would have been decidedly less forgiving. "He wasn't in his right mind."

"I know, and that's why I haven't murdered him," said Tony without a trace of humor in his voice.

"Still think I shouldn't slap him?"

Tony sighed. "Slap away, but when you're done, we'll need to figure things out for real."

"I think maybe he needs to talk to someone before he goes back in to see Jonathan. A counselor or something," said Angela. "To help him get his anxieties under control. I'll talk to him about it when I find him."

"Good thinking. It'd probably do him good to talk to someone. Someone who ain't got a pony in this race, who ain't a bundle of nerves themselves, and who he can trust not to flip out and slap him. And I still need to find someone to help Sam, too," he remembered.

"That can be next on our to-do list. For now, go call Mother and bring her up to speed." Angela checked her watch. "She should be done with the presentation by now."

She found Michael slumped on a couch in the waiting room, wearing a thousand-yard stare. Apparently, he'd stepped out to the convenience mart across the street from the hospital, as he was drinking something from a small glass bottle, concealed in a paper bag stamped with their logo. That scared her more than any of his strange behavior thus far. He had never been a drinking man. Then again, she'd never seen him under this kind of psychological strain before. She supposed this was what the professionals called self-medicating.

"Michael, put that down." When he failed to respond or even look at her, she snatched the bottle from his grasp. It wasn't difficult. His hand was weak and shaking. She dropped the bottle into a trash can and sat down beside him. "Michael, what do you think you're doing? You're not a drunk, and this is a bad time to choose to become one."

He wouldn't meet her gaze. "Angela, I can't handle this."

A reasonable sentiment. She, and every other parent she'd met over the last few days, felt the exact same way. "Neither can I. But it's happened, and we're going to have to, regardless."

He shook his head. "Angela, we need to talk. I know I haven't been the best dad…"

The polite thing to do would have been to tell him that wasn't true, but she couldn't make herself lie to him. "You're still his father. And he still loves you," she reassured him instead.

"You don't understand what I'm trying to say. I was a below-average father when the kid was normal and healthy. Taking care of a kid who's disabled…this isn't what I signed on for."

Angela stared at him in open-mouthed outrage. "I hate to break it to you, Michael, but when you signed his birth certificate, you signed up for everything. The good days and the bad ones."

He buried his face in his hands, as if to hide from her words. "This isn't a good time for me to be facing something like this, Angela. My wife just left me, and I was already dangling near the end of my rope."

"Well, I'm so sorry our child's near-death experience came at such an inconvenient time!" she hissed at him angrily. "Because Tony and I just love having to face a crisis in the middle of trying to figure out a new relationship! And Samantha's really been enjoying having her first year of high school interrupted by scarring mental trauma. I, for one, have been having a great time, leaving my fledgling business to watch my son fight for his life! And you know how industrious and responsible Mother is—she's adored stepping into my shoes and taking on all this extra work!"

Her ex-husband flinched. "Judge me all you want, but that doesn't change reality! I'm not cut out for something like this!" He gestured vaguely in the direction of their son's room. "You saw me in there. I was a basket-case. I could have hurt him."

He had been sucked into the same whirlpool of guilt and despair that had overcome her, Tony, and Sam the night of Jonathan's accident, she realized. But he wasn't even trying to fight it. "Abandoning him isn't the solution. He needs you. Get your emotions under control. Talk to a professional. This is a hospital. We can arrange that."

He still wouldn't look her in the eye. "I can't do this. I just can't." He rose from his seat and headed for the exit. "I've already called and booked an early flight to Vladivostok Don't worry, I've still got my key, so I'm going to take a cab back to your house to get my stuff on the way to the airport…"

"You're serious about this, aren't you? You're going to walk out on your only son. Again. On the worst day of his life. Without even saying goodbye?" She stood up and grabbed him by the arm, seizing his chin and forcing him to face her. "Michael, you and I have had our differences, and I know you have your faults, just like anyone. But until today, I never thought you were a coward."

He looked away again. "I know you're upset, but don't let your pride keep you from sending me his medical bills. I'm happy to pay my share. I know you'll make sure he gets the best care there is." And with that as his farewell, he turned his back on her and walked out.

"…He couldn't quite make a fist, but you could tell he really, really wanted to take a swing at her," Tony recounted excitedly to Mona over the payphone.

"So, it sounds like he's in terrible shape, but he's still Jonathan," the voice on the other end of the line concluded.

"Same old Jonathan," Tony confirmed. "Do you want me to come and pick you up?"

"No, you stay where you are. If Michael gets out of line again, I want you there to serve as bodyguard. I'll get a cab from the train station. It'll be about an hour and a half. I haven't had lunch, did you save me some?"

"Yeah. Actually, we were so busy with Jonathan that we ain't eaten, either." His stomach rumbled. "And now that the kid's come back to us, I'm starting to get my appetite back."

"Go eat and hydrate," she commanded him. "I want my grandson's bodyguard in peak physical condition."

He saluted sarcastically, though he knew she couldn't see him. "Yes ma'am. See you soon." A pair of arms suddenly grabbed him around the waist, a familiar face pressing against the back of his shoulder and his girlfriend's sweet, powdery scent filling his nostrils. "Well, as far as surprise attacks go, this has gotta be one of the nicest." He turned to take her in his arms, and noticed for the first time that her face was wet. "Angela? Honey, what's wrong?"

"Men are pigs! Promise me you'll never become one?"

"Uh…I'll try?" Bewildered, he stroked her hair as she wept into the front of his shirt. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"I chose a horrible father for my son and now he's going to pay the price for my bad judgment," she sobbed.

"Michael?" Tony's protective instincts surged. "What did that creep do now? Do I need to hurt him?"

"It wouldn't do any good," she sniffled. "As far as I'm aware, there's no way to force somebody to give a damn. He's gone, and I don't think he's coming back. What's that going to do to Jonathan?"

"He might not notice," said Tony optimistically, thinking of his conversation with Jonathan's father that morning at home. All the milestones the kid had gone through without his old man noticing, let alone caring. "I mean, he's spent maybe two weeks with the kid, all told, in the last three and a half years, and Jonathan never seemed particularly scarred by his absence before."

"Well, he was used to it. And he had you," said Angela.

"He'll always have me," Tony pledged.

"I know. You promised him that night he pulled his little Parent Trap on us." That memory managed to get a smile out of her. "And you never break your promises. Especially promises made to our kids."

Tony nodded gravely, glad that she knew him well enough to realize that, even in her state of rage and panic. "And especially at a time like this. I know what he's going through."

She quirked an eyebrow. "When did you slip into a coma and come out of it paralyzed?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Never, smartypants, but if there's one guy in the world who knows what it's like to face down a life-changing injury, it's former future baseball legend Tony Micelli."

"Oh. That."

"Yeah. That." It was funny. To almost everyone else he met, his brief stint in the major leagues was who he was, full stop. Angela didn't even remember it most of the time. "Just a heads-up, when he gets his voice back, we're probably going to wish he hadn't. He's going to be a sad, grouchy mess, for a while. But I won't let him push me away, and don't you let him, either."

"I won't." Angela suddenly lifted her face from his shoulder, seeming alarmed. "Oh dear. You don't think he's really going to take a swing at Sam once he's able, do you?"

He'd forgotten about that little exchange, for a minute. "Now that you mention it, probably."

She bit her lip worriedly. "We'd better get back in there, before all hell breaks loose."

He hooked her little finger in his, as if they were two children making a pact. "It's you and me, babe. We're in this together."

She seemed to like the sound of that. "Together."