NIGHT SHIFT, PT 2
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 4 — 8:53 PM
Helen Cho is not a gentle person.
Medical school molded her into something blunt and inflexible; a simultaneous PhD in genetic studies turned her into a research machine. Before she started working for Tony and Pepper, she scarcely used her medical degree. Save the occasional Avenger rescue, all of her work was theoretical.
But soon she became on call for anything Tony needed. She liked it—being their go-to. She used to sit in labs every day craned over a microscope; now she has an office on a hospital floor and interacts with her patients. She now knows the nurses all by name—has lunch with them, knows the names of their partners and children, and even sends them gifts on their birthdays. Now she knows Peter Parker as well as she does her nieces and nephews. Or, she thinks with a distinct sense of grief, used to know. This job has softened her—her crude edges and her harsh corners.
With Peter Parker, Helen knows, she needs to be gentle.
She pushes open the boy’s Medbay door and immediately spots him in that corner with Cassie. He’s wearing an olive green hoodie with white stripes down both arms, and it fits loosely over his shoulders; she remembers when it used to fit him. He’s wearing a pair of jeans today, too, and he’s sitting on the floor with his legs slightly bent up—like usual. Cassie is sitting at his side, arms hooked around Peter’s arm, head tipped into his shoulder. Her eyes are closed, and she’s drooling onto Peter’s sweatshirt sleeve—sleeping. She’s in her pajamas already, too—button-down yellow ones with matching pants and the monkey from Curious George printed all over it.
Helen takes a few steps forward; Nurse Kaelyn is just a couple steps behind. Peter doesn’t move, but he does seem to tense as Helen approaches, his dark eyes trained on her. She tries to seem gentle—to take slow steps, to maintain a pleasant expression, to now seem as confrontational as she feels—but Peter can smell it off of her like a bloodhound. As she kneels in front of him, the boy clenches his finger’s down on Cassie’s shoulder, waking her, and stares at her with that hyper-intent gaze.
For his sake, Helen tries to stay calm.
“Peter,” she says, keeping her voice steady, “where did you put the morphine?”
The teenager eyes her, then her hands. He jerks his head slightly to one side but doesn’t say anything. Helen tries to read his body language, but she’s not Sarah—she can't understand him. She doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.
Someone should be getting Sarah—damn it, she should’ve called Sarah before she even walked in here. The woman’s likely at home with her family, but they need her now. She makes brief eye contact with Nurse Kaelyn, who nods and mouths, I’ll call her.
Helen turns back to Peter, who’s staring distinctly at her white-clothed arms. “The other things,” she continues, “the tape, the ointment—those are fine. But the morphine, Peter, that amount could really hurt you. You’re already on a lot of medication.” The little girl’s staring at her to now, and she has to resist the urge to back up. “You’re not in any trouble. I just want to make sure you’re safe. Just tell me where you put it.”
Still nothing. The boy’s getting more tense by the second, his hands clenching and unclenching, his whole body wound up like a drum. His eyes dart around and his head moves again—sharply.
Note: Displays several repetitive bodily behaviors. Clenching hands in fists. Nodding. Could be sign of lasting damage from TBI.
“I don’t want to search you,” Helen adds, “but this is a safety issue, Peter. Just give me the medication, and you can keep the rest.”
Peter’s throat shifts—a swallow—and Helen watches the crease in his forehead deepen.
He’s not going to give it up. She knows this. She knew this when she asked the question in the first place. This is how addicts work. They sneak, they steal, they lie… And Peter, given his circumstances, doesn’t act like a usual drug-seeking patient.
Note: narcotic-seeking behavior. No verbal requests for pain medication but actively stealing narcotics from medical staff.
“Peter,” she repeats, “If you need more pain medication, I’m sure we can work something out—but I can’t let you keep that morphine, you understand? It’s just—it’s a safety issue.“
Helen’s read the files. This is how he got drugs before—begging for them, trading for them, or taking them himself. This is how he stayed safe in that bunker. This is how he handled his pain before. This is how he’ll continue to handle it now.
“Peter,” she says, the boy’s final chance. Helen tries to meet his eyes but fails; his brown eyes focus on her arms, and then her shoulders, and then back to his arms. He’s stiff, so stiff it looks painful, his fingers clenched on Cassie’s shoulder, his head tilted downward in some attempt at compliance. “It’s okay—I know you took it. You’re—you’re not in any trouble, okay? I just don’t want you or Cassie to get hurt.” For a fraction of a second, Peter’s eyes dart up and still on her face, then dart back down. “Okay? Just tell me, and we can work something out, I promise.”
Please, Peter, she thinks, although the boy has barely taken a breath since she approached him. Please, just tell me.
Helen doesn’t know if he’s listening. She doesn’t know if he even understands what she’s saying. She’s been reading about this—trying to understand how Peter’s mind works now. According to her books, he might be re-experiencing traumatic memories now or already dissociating from the moment. She can’t tell.
She wonders what he’s thinking now. She thinks about those scars on his legs—the long ones—and her stomach twists. Is that how he sees her now? Is that why he’s barely moved?
“Peter,” she says again. The boy’s eyes stay firmly on Helen’s lap, where her hands rest on her knees. “Work with me. Come on.”
But she knows he won’t.
He’s not going to give it up, no matter how much she asks.
She tell him she’s sorry; he doesn’t say anything back. Together, she and Kaelyn search through the hospital room with a fine-tooth comb: through the bin of Peter’s clothes, in the bathroom, over every inch of hospital tile floor. They strip the bed and shake out the blankets and sheets. They pat Peter down, and Cassie, too, and at some point Tony bursts in like the Tower’s on fire, demanding to know what’s going on. A nurse hauls him out and explains.
The little girl is crying; Peter isn’t making any noise at all, just clasping the little girl to his side with one arm.
They drag the mattress off the bed, and together they scour it for gaps and tears. Then Kaelyn grabs the bed’s plastic headboard so they can move it away from the wall, and Peter jolts like someone just electrocuted him.
There.
There’s a crack in the side of the bed’s headboard—on the left side, where the kids have been spending most of their time these past couple weeks. With rubber-gloved hands, Helen tries to pry at the crack, but finds it’s glued together with a sticky substance—if Helen had to guess, probably the adhesive fluid that leaks from Peter’s hands. They call a janitor in who manages to pry open the mutilated plastic to find a hollow area inside. They both peer inside.
From the hole comes the unmistakable odor of rot. Helen covers her nose automatically, and at her side, Nurse Kaelyn winces. Helen reaches her gloved hand in and pulls the items out one of at a time, and with each one her heart drops a little further into her gut.
First a roll of medical tape. Then several unopened packets of alcohol wipes. A plastic spork. A stale piece of pizza. A saline flush syringe. Some lego pieces. Browned apple slices covered in white mold. A loose bandage discolored yellow from use. The missing vial of morphine, still full. A scrap of torn orange fabric.
A chunk of food so covered in darkish spots that Helen can’t even recognize it. A stuffed unicorn spotted with spreading mold. The empty tube of antiseptic. A shHelen places each item on the floor in front of them. Ghosting her hand over the slice of pizza, Kaelyn mutters under her breath, “Oh my god, oh my god…”
How had they not seen it? How had they not smelled the rotting food? Not noticed the missing supplies? How had they been so blind? She supposes the smell of disinfectant and medication must’ve shrouded most of it, but still. Had they been paying any attention at all?
At the far back of the hole, beneath a pair of shirts—one children’s small, one adult medium—and wrapped in a swatch of paper towels from the bathroom, is a long piece of gray plastic sharpened to a point at one end.
It takes a second for Helen to realize what it is. The headboard is uneven: there’s a length of plastic missing from the left side, just along the bottom. He must’ve… With his super-strength, somehow, he must’ve pulled it right off. It looks like a spear, almost, a mix between a knife and a skewer, with medical tape wrapped around the other end like a handle. Just big enough to hold. Just sharp enough to do some real damage.
It’s a weapon. Out of nothing, Peter made a weapon.
When the hell did he do this? Helen’s in here all the time, and she’s never seen the kids doing anything like this. She barely sees Peter hold anything at all, let alone steal it. But they’ve been spending so much time in this corner, it could be possible… Helen glances between the plastic headboard and the camera up by the door. It’s in the opposite corner of the room. As long as they stay in the far back of this corner beside the bed, the camera can’t see them. They never told Peter about the camera—they made sure of that—but if they’d started stealing things from any other spot in the room, they would’ve been caught.
Is that why they’ve been spending so much time here?
Helen holds the plastic piece up and makes the immediate mistake of eye contact with Peter. The kid is still sat up against the wall, and he’s now blinking very quickly, his chest stuff—she’s not sure he’s even breathing. His jaw is so tight that he looks frozen, his hands gripping Cassie closely to him. “Peter,” she tries, putting it on the floor with the rest. Her mind blinks through a thousand different conversations, a thousand more ways he could react. God, where is Sarah when she needs her? “You’re not in trouble. We’re just gonna take these, gonna—gonna have a conversation about what to do next.”
She hears his breathing pick up, his eyes growing wider as he stares back at her. The skin of his neck is pulsing on one side, and his hands are shaking on Cassie’s shoulders; mouth shut, that pupil-blown terror written all over his face, Peter visibly pales—like Helen’s grown a second set of teeth, like something’s crawled into the room on all fours. He’s looking at her with such horror that Helen feels the sudden urge to turn around and look behind her, like Peter’s seeing a clawed monster scrape through the doorway. “Peter,” she says again, a futile attempt to wipe that disturbing look from his face. “Peter, breathe. You’re safe here. I’m not gonna—look, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
Note: symptoms of panic attack when confronted about drug-seeking behavior. Muscle tension. Shortness of breath. Hand tremors. Skin paling.
She’s not Sarah, though, and she’s certainly not Tony, and she has no idea how to get him to calm down. She stands up, and one of the nurses moves in, talking to him, asking him to count, asking him to breathe, and just as the little girl starts screeching, Helen backs out of the room.
DATE: JUNE 16, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
dear Harley
Charlies guys keep coming downstairs to visit me. this morning Haroon was the first. Dx fractured R4 knuckle. I asked him what happened. he glared at me + said “take a wild Guess doc” his quiet friend stood behind him the whole time with his arms folded w gun at his belt. got him fixed up . casted the hand + told him to stay off it for a couple weeks. the guy asked me how Pt was. I scoffed. he asked again. I wanted to spit right in his face. but I just took my gloves off + said “take a wild guess.”
they were beating on Pt today. Nothing broke skin But CC sharp ch pain whn breathing L side + shortness f breath, vis deform. Dx anterolateral rib Fx. Pts been shook up since he saw that guy die. quieter. had him lay down whl I iced hs ribs. wasnt talking bc of th pain so I told hm some stories about u. when u were little + broke yr arm jumping off that swing. when y made tht potato gun for th science fair.
checked his wounds from ysterdy too—mstly healed but 2 hd sgns of infection—swelling, incrsd redness—so had to change out th bandaging, clean out th wound, antiseptic ointment. should probably have given him mr amoxicillin, bt Ive been trying to avoid it. been drowning hm in antibiotics so much lately — + if Pt gets smthng resistant to them thn hes screwed. down here? completely screwed. been running low on oxy too. coupl more days + Ill be fresh out. I k how it sounds Harley bt Im scared out f my mind to ask. I know I know thts stupid after all that Pts been thru. Im
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
NAME: ___________________
DATE: JUNE 16, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID: _______________
scared of them smacking m around a little? I know I know Ive been having some trouble eating the last couple days—worried I guess about asking them. thought I was sick—had th runs and nausea + cldnt sleep almost at all last night. kept thinking + thinking about it.
I worked up th courage tday tho. Had to. Wrote down a list of evrythng I needed + bangd on th door untl 1 barged in. not one of my usual guards—a woman. that red-haired one. dont k her name. high whn she came in—skin covered in sweat, breathing slow—heroin I thnk. face drooping. looks older than last time I saw her, and her hair a little longer. tied back in a tangled ponytail like it hasnt been brushed in days. new tattoo on her neck too, inflamed. an octopus like th ones on th walls. “what do you want?” she said her words all slurred. I handed her th list + she laughed. slow laugh. eyelids half closed. “yeah yeah yeah” she said + thn she strted rmbling ab how she had to evrythng + walked off.
I think I waited too long Harley Im afraid they wont give me anything at all. its mostly painkillers on that list. thats what he needs — + if they wont give me any mor I dont knw wht to do. I miss y so much Harley. I hope yr safe. I cant know for sure just plz plz be safe.
love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 — 9:07 AM
Peter's makeshift weapon has been sitting on Helen's desk since last night.
Most of the other objects they’d hidden were contaminated with mold—the stuffed animal, the shirts, the legos—and the rest were biohazards—the used bandages, the medical tape. So they had to toss it. As it turned out, only the legos were salvageable.
Helen examines the weapon, twisting it over in her hands. How long did it take to file it to this sharp of a point? She presses her finger against the tip, and a bead of blood swells on her skin, which Helen quickly smears away with her thumb. Peter didn’t have much facial hair—perhaps due to his genetics, his youth, his facial scarring, or even the malnutrition—but when they used a razor on his face they always made sure to keep track of it. They knew he shouldn’t have any weapons. They made sure to blunt the edges of the cans they ate from, never give them metal utensils, and never put anything dangerous within an arm’s reach. The sporks, even, were made of a fragile, compostable polymer: they could never be sharpened into something weaponizable. And after that one incident where Peter had snatched up a needled syringe, they’d taken extensive measures to ensure it didn’t happen again.
But once again, Helen had colossally underestimated Peter’s strength. Again she’d miscalculated the extent of his post-traumatic behaviors. She’d never conceived of him coming up with something like this. Something so ingenious. Something so violent.
In the morning, they meet in the conference room like usual; Helen at the head of the table, Sarah on one side, Tony and Maggie Paxton on the other. Like Pepper, Jim is at work—he’s been gone more and more these days, uneasy around Peter and on edge around the staff. Helen doesn’t mind his absence; it’s quieter without him.
“...but given the extent of the mold,” she explains to both worried parents, “they’ve been doing this for at least two weeks.”
“So before the hearing?”
“Yes,” Helen answers, “before the hearing.”
Two weeks, she thinks. So even in Peter’s best moments, he’d still been hiding the worst of his symptoms. Progress? They’d only scraped the surface of Peter’s issues.
Maggie Paxton is staring down at the middle of the table where the makeshift weapon sits; she hasn’t said much. Her eyes are very red and she keeps sniffling and sniffling as everyone else talks, wiping her cardigan sleeve across her nose. “We’ve been giving him—you’ve been giving him enough pain meds, right?” Tony says, turning desperately to Helen. “I don’t understand why he would do something like this. We—we would’ve given him more. He could’ve told me… He could’ve said he was in pain, we would’ve…”
“He had no reason to trust you,” Sarah interjects, “not after the hearing—”
“And the food, I don’t—” Tony’s pressing his fist to his forehead, grinding it in a harsh circle. “Were you giving him enough? If he was hungry, he must’ve—he must’ve been hungry, and you didn’t—”
Sarah shakes her head. “Tony, listen to what we’re saying. Kids who experience food scarcity tend to have…harmful behaviors around food. Overeating, undereating… Hoarding’s a big one.”
“But—but we’ve been getting them on a routine,” Maggie says, inching her sleeves up over her knuckles. “That was supposed to help—with the food problems, and everything, right?”
“Recovery isn’t that simple, Mrs. Paxton. I think keeping Cassie’s meals routine have helped, definitely, but it didn’t mean that she was never going to have a poor reaction.”
Maggie closes her mouth, wipes at her eyes. “And—and the knife? Was that… Was that…”
Sarah’s hands are on her blue notebook; she draws it in towards herself as she continues. “Listen, this incident is all the more reason why we should move them upstairs. They need safety. They need routine.”
“They have routine here,” Helen says. “I really think we should just wait a little longer to move them, Sarah.” She’s been racking up their behaviors in her head—for both of them. Agitation. Panic attacks. Combativeness. Reckless behavior. Mood swings. Dissociative periods. Violent outbursts. Selective mutism. Disordered eating.
Again, Sarah shakes her head. “If your routine led to this, Helen, it needs to change. We have to move them.”
Tony glances between them, a faint circular glow emanating from his chest through his tee shirt. “Aren’t we—aren’t we still moving them? I thought that was the plan.”
“I’m not sure,” admits Helen, just as Sarah says, “Of course we are.”
Both of them startle; Helen quickly adds, “He’s still on a lot of medication, Sarah, I mean with his central line, and he’s still using the NG tube—”
“Those can all be done outpatient.”
She shakes her head; in her mind, an image of Peter appears from those first few days. Lying pale on a bed of white hospital sheets. Strapped down by both arms. Eyes clouded by fear. “I just don’t think he’s ready—”
“He’ll never be ready if we keep pushing it off.”
“He’s sick—”
“He’s better.”
“—he’s not eating enough—”
Sarah interjects, “His weight’s up.”
“—and he’s dangerous!”
Silence over the table. In the middle of the table between them all: the makeshift blade.
“He made it,” Sarah says, her eyes dropping to the blade and then up to meet Helen’s gaze. “But he didn’t use it. That’s something.”
“He pried off a piece of his own bed and sharpened it into a knife. He’s not a safe person to be around, Sarah. I can’t let him walk out of the Medbay knowing he could—that something could…”
“Helen, you know he needs better than this. He needs a home.”
“He’s still dangerous—”
“He’s stagnating,” the other woman says. “He will never improve if you leave him like this. We’ve replicated a system that he’s very familiar with—people giving him medication, choosing everything he does, when he does it, what he eats, when he eats…” She sighs. “If you keep treating him like a prisoner, then he’ll keep acting like one.”
She knows Sarah’s right. They have to give him a chance.
If they leave Peter the way he is, he’ll probably continue to behave the way he has in the Medbay. Violent. Antisocial. Nonfunctional. He’ll continue to deteriorate unless something changes. Something has to give.
“Even if it goes wrong,” Sarah says, “we have to let him try.”
DATE: JUNE 25, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
dear Harley
they took his fucking finger. yesterdy. half. half hs finger. Pt Dx trmatic partial amput f R5 a medial phlnx. severe bleeding. severe shock. shallow lac R4 dig at medial phlnx no Fx. low BP. Tx IV saline + local anesthetic + cleand up th wound best I cld. warming blnkt + laying down + p- BP up ag.
Pts clotting factor has gotten better since I met him. doubled maybe. one of hs superhero things I think. I numbed up the whole hand. wasnt a clean cut. looks like it took them a couple tries to do it. Tx excise damagd tissue + extr bandages so he wouldnt see how much he lost. dont think it helped.
they wouldnt give me th rest of it. thought mybe I cld sew it back on. shock was bad Harley rly bad he was so pale + couldnt talk at all. tried to get him wrmed up, keep BP up. wouldnt talk. couldnt. no engagement at all. said his name about a thousand times but Pt kept blinking and blinking and staring at it. kept staring at it. didnt answer when I asked wht happened. guess it doesnt matter. answer would be the same.
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: JUNE 25, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
he leaned his head ag me while I was working. told him to stay awake, kept nudging his arm to make sure he was consc. he was. still shock I think. + when they came for him he was still so pale. still hadnt said a word. I tried to get them to wait I tried to gt more time bt those goddam peopl Harley they took him away they took him away again + I just let them.
I try not to get mad Harley I rly do. for Pts sake. he needs a safe envrnmnt. somewher peaceful.
but last night.
last night I dont know. I dont know I got mad. I just lost it. I dont know what got into me. someone opened th door + w some supplies - the ones I askd for, + I had this stainless steel stool so I picked it up + smashed it into his head. I wanted to see him hurt Harley I wanted to see him bleed out on the operating floor th way I see Pt bleed every day. The guy wasnt Charlie though. He was one of the smaller guys. Mateo his name was Mateo because the other guy yelled it when I hit him. I got him good probably 4 or 5 times until they pulled me off of him. the other guard hit me a couple times but I barely even remembr it hurting. Ive never felt like that before. I couldve killed him. if Id had the chance I wouldve. I remembr screaming “look what you did! look what you did!” + getting my hands around his throat + squeezing until they pulled me off of him.
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: JUNE 25, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
they gave me time to calm down after. cuffed me to th operating tble + left me there for a little while. when they came back they brought me th man I hit. Mateo. had me stitch hm back up. pointed a gun at me th whole time.
thn Charlie came down himself.
my heart started flipflopping in my chest. th last time Id seen th man hed punched Rirees face into mush - Pt threw himself underneath th operating tble when he saw him - his face went so white he looked sick. I hadnt seen him since. I only ever saw his handiwork. to me hes a ghost. he mustve been bored that day. or high.
he was bigger thn I remembered. taller. he walks heavy + he had that hammer in one hand. he held it up to my chin + put his mouth right up to my ear close enough that I could feel his beard tickle my cheek. “we can always find another doctor.” he whispered it to me, like a joke, + thn grinned at me. “behave, wont you? or well find th next guy stupid enough to walk outside.”
he didnt hurt me. he didnt even touch me - just pressed th hammer up to my face. he knew he didnt have to bother. he knew I wouldnt fight back. + hes right. Im sorry hon. I know hes right. Im not gonna make it out of here.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 — 11:28 AM
“He wrote it down! It’s right there, he wrote it down!”
“Mr. Keener, please—”
“He specifically said he wanted me to have it!” Harley stabs his finger at the printout of police records: a shitty copy he’d made at the local library that morning—a photo of the prescription pads covered in his father’s scribbly handwriting. His notes from some day in June. “Right here!”
The lawyer sat in front of him is a youngish man with a receding hairline who looks uncomfortable in his office chair. The room is small, barely big enough to fit the desk itself and the filing cabinet behind him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keener,” the lawyer says, strained, “but as I said, legally I can’t accept that as an active will.”
“I googled it!” Harley snaps back. “He—he thought he was gonna die! And if you’re dying you can change it!”
“These kinds of laws go by state, Mr. Keener, and in the state of New Hampshire, I’m sorry, but we don’t accept holographic wills as legal documentation of a person’s wishes. I’m sorry.”
“I—I don’t understand—”
The man sighs; he glances down at the pages laid out on the desk before him, folded up from when Harley shoved them in his backpack. “For a will to be considered valid,” he explains, “it needs to meet a certain number of requirements. Their signature, at least two credible witnesses—”
“But he didn’t have a chance to change it! He wanted to—he said right here. Look!”
“Mr. Keener,” he says again, and the man swallows, shifting in his office chair. “In order to supersede your father’s current will—”
“That one’s from years ago,” Harley says, pleading. “he was gonna change it, sir, look—if you would just read—”
“I read the documents you sent me, Mr. Keener, I believe you.” The lawyer grimaces down at the pages again. Photocopies of prescription pad after prescription pad—all spread in a mess over his desk. Highlighter streaks across several of the pages, all marking his father’s words. “But these…” The man pries up one page with two fingers, reads a sentence, and sets it back down with distaste. “They’re not even signed. I’m sorry. In this state… They just don’t hold up.”
Harley grips the back of his chair, staring down at one of the pages. There, in his dad’s near-incoherent handwriting: Love you. Dad.
“Listen.” The man clears his throat: a wet sound. “I heard about what happened to your dad, and I really wish I could do more. I’m so sorry about what he—”
“Yeah, right,” Harley spits. “If you were that sorry, you’d respect his wishes. He wanted me to have his stuff. He wanted me to go to college.”
A tense silence. “Listen—it’s not the end of the world. From his current will, it looks like all of your father’s estate will go to your mother. So it’s not like it’s inaccessible—it’s just a family matter. If you talk to your mother I’m sure—”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harley says, heat rising to his face. “Some lawyer you are.”
The man swallows. “I’m—”
“—sorry, yeah.” Harley says, snatching up his backpack from the chair in front of him. “I heard.”
DATE: JULY 8, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
Dear Harley
Ive been having these dreams lately that they took you too. almost every night—that instead of Pt they drag y thru those doors. I never get to go up there though so even if they did have y its not like Id ever know.
Charlies guys just keep coming back. overdoses mostly + collateral damage from Pts sessions. Burnt hand from a blowtorch. Dislocated fingers + sprained wrists. anothr one tweaked his shoulder swinging a crowbar. At least one a day at least someone asks me for something. complaining something hurts here or there. helps w the boredom tho + keeps me sane.
Pt was upset today. acting strange. new people in th bunkr—that may be why. “do you know how many?” I askd him. he shrugged at me. he wasnt too bad today. shaky tho—used that ECT machine on him today again. I asked him if he heard anything. I was desperate for any new info - all I could hear ws more footsteps than usual. “more of Charlies friends?”
he repeated what I said. “more of” he whispered, + thn he pressd his hand agnst his forehead kept wincng. headache probably so I prepped anthr dose for him Tx 15mg oral almotriptan. “more - more of” he said. kept saying it.
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: JULY 8, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
he does that a lot after the ECT. usually he just wants to sleep it off but today he was sitting on th ground + wasnt letting me near him. kept shaking his head evry time I got clos.
“did you meet them?” I asked. he didnt answer me so I put the pill on the floor between us. took him a second but he picked it up + swallowed it dry. he was quiet the rest of the time. slept sitting on the floor—against the wall. I left him alone, left a couple more pills w him so he could take them latr.
I dont know what this means. backup isnt good obviusly but mayb I can convinc one of these new peopl to help if theyr not already sworn to Charlie. + if I can get 1 of them to turn well mayb we have a shot. Ill ask Pt more tmrw. h might knw more then.
found a camera the other day too did I tell y? it worked. tried to convince Pt to film smthng w it—thought mayb I cld put it in w th garbage + someon wld find it + play the video. Pt didnt like it. refused to talk about anything but dying. kept staring at that finger + pretending he was sleeping. hes started to do that. pretend to sleep. he knows he doesnt have to talk + Ill just sit and talk to him. sing to him. sometimes it puts him to sleep too.
remember that song I used to sing to you?
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 — 6:30 PM
Mr. Tony stops by again on Friday.
Lunch was ham sandwiches and sliced pineapple. Cassie eats all of it and she wants more but Mommy won’t give her any. Dinner is really good, too. Spinach and meatloaf and brown rice. She didn't used to like spinach, but she likes it now, downing the can in a couple gulps, so fast that she feels sick after.
Mr. Tony says he’s sorry a couple times. He comes close to Peter, and her brother looks up at him like he’s got a hammer clutched in his fingers. He says some stuff about upstairs, upstairs, upstairs, and he says that they’re gonna leave.
Just like Peter said.
“...not going far. But at the moment, we think it’s too dangerous to leave the Tower, and we want to keep the medical staff close to you just in case. We’ll be upstairs, the top floor, like where Pepper and me used to live. It’ll be just like home.”
Cassie watches her brother’s lips move, an echo, his brow tight like coiled wire: like home.
“Sarah thought it might be a good idea to visit it today, just so you can get a feel for it before we move your stuff and everything…” Mommy is there beside Mr. Tony, nodding and she keeps looking at Cassie. Her hair is dripping and there’s a dark spot on the back of her wrinkled shirt. Her eyes are red and she keeps wiping at her face with the side of her hand and giving Peter weird looks.
She looks like that a lot now.
“...do you think you’d want to do that, honey?” Mommy prompts, fiddling with her sweater. The bandage on her arm is gone now, but Cassie can still see the spot where she bit her. It’s colored different than the rest of Mommy’s skin. A little bit pinker. A little bit darker. “Checking out your new room upstairs? You’ll like it, I promise. It’s just like your old room. Your old toys, your old bed…”
They’re leaving? Now? Cassie thinks, as her mommy keeps talking. Peter didn’t say anything about leaving now. She doesn’t want to go yet. She’s not ready. She wants to stay here with Peter. She blurts, “But I thought—”
Peter makes that sound, a hissing sound through his teeth, barely a whisper of a noise. Quiet.
She stops talking, glancing up at her mom. “No, no,” says Mommy, waving her hand at Peter. “It’s okay, she can ask—Cassie, what did you want to say, honey?”
Cassie looks at her brother—his jaw’s set and his arm barely grazes hers. A couple of his fingers twitch towards her: get back. Shuffling back from the woman—back from her mommy—he grabs the back of his sweatshirt with one hand, really, really, tight, and that makes her feel a little better.
Mommy gives Peter a frowny look like Jim usually does.
“...can go together,” Mr. Tony is saying. “It’s just upstairs, that’s all. You can look around as much as you want—just so you can see where you’ll be staying…”
They talk for a while, Mommy and Mr. Tony; Peter doesn’t say anything the whole time.
“...wants everyone moved in by Monday, so we thought you’d like to see it first.” He clasps his hands together. “We’ll meet you two up there. Okay?”
Her brother jerks her head slightly. A yes.
DATE: JULY 28, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
Dear Harley
there’s something wrong w Pt. he hasnt been talking much these past few weeks + hes been zoning out a lot. will say somethng like he doesnt remember where he is. I think its the brain damage or mayb the ECT. Ive tried working thru some cognitive tests with him but I dont have my textbooks so I just make sure he cn Get the basics: name, time, place. but its hard with kids its always hard. sometimes they dont answer just because they dont want to—I used to hav lots of patients like tht.
today Dx 3 lacerations L upper chest so I had to get the top part of his jumpsuit off to get a good look. he ws laying on th operating Table + I ws cleaning up th wound w sterile saline + he kicked me. he kicked me Harley in the stomach hard enough that it knocked the wind right out of me. hes never done tht to me. ever. kicked + thn froze up like I was gonna hurt him or smthg. apoligized to me + kept apoligizing to me + I told him it was ok. I dont know. maybe its just the new peopl maybe its his head
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: JULY 28, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
I dont know. tried to calm him, couldnt get him to even look at me. hes rly on edge. that look on his face Harley. he wasnt acting like himself at all. I dont know Harley it was bad it was rly bd. never seen him like ths before. offered him a sedative. more painkllrs too. just something to get him to rest a little + he kept pushing his hand against his head + whispering + whispering to himself + apoligizing again. coulnt get clos enough to comfort him. just sat there w him + tht was all I cld do.
renee came in later that night after Pt was gone—woke me up. asked me what kind of doctor I was. I told her. she askd me if I had anything to help her. I asked what for + she started laughing—that sweaty kind of pale laugh + I realizd she was in pain. hard to get it out of her she was high + rly hard to understand. but from the symptoms I got the gist. abnorml bleeding, abnorml cramps. miscarriage. I told her I couldnt help—shed have to go to a real doctor for that, to make sure nothing was wrong. that she should go now if she wanted to be sure. I said tht too. real doctor. I didnt even think twice whn I did. I guess its true. not a real doctor anymore. not in here. she argued w me + said I could help + I told her again + again I couldnt until she shot a vicious look at m + staggered out. I think she went tho bc they changed the guards out—took one of the girls w her.
Im still okay out here Harley dont worry. maybe if I help them enough then one of them will help me. maybe then I cn come home. maybe.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 — 7:01 PM
Peter can hear the doctor’s voice.
It’s all he can think about.
His memories are a fucking sinkhole, one hemorrhaging into the next, shards of words and smells and bursts of pain—and through it he keeps hearing that man’s voice. He can remember a gunshot, but he doesn’t remember seeing anything. He can’t fucking remember. Medbay to the operating room and back again. White sheets. Blue scrubs. Cement to tile, tile to cement, and the pain seizing so viciously in what’s left of his knee—like a bear trap’s clamped down on it, right to the bone. And every time he moves, it’s like he’s trying to tear it right out.
“Hey—hey, you’re okay, Peter, look at me.”
There’s a wheelchair by the door—black metal with upholstered navy leather and a Stark Industries logo plastered across the seat. Next to it, leaned against the wall, is a set of crutches—padded aluminum with rubber soles. How long has it been? How long has Tony been waiting on him?
He knows where he is. Strangely, he remembers where Tony instructed him to go. Ninety-third floor. He remembers it. He does.
“FRIDAY,” he says, “where, uh…” As soon as the word leaves his mouth he wants to take it back.
Somewhere above him, the AI answers him cheerfully, “Where’s what, Peter?”
Hugging her stuffed zebra close to her chest, Cassie looks around at the ceiling—she’s dressed in new clothes. He doesn’t remember her getting those clothes. A fuzzy large hoodie. Pink leggings. Shoes, even, she’s wearing shoes.
He coughs a little. His throat feels weird. Dry. “Tony,” he tries. Tony’s here. He said he was here. He was just here, wasn’t he? Peter remembers—a man talking to him. Lunch, he remembers lunch.
There’s a moment of silence from the ceiling, and then: “Mr. Stark is on the ninety-third floor with Dr. Cho and Dr. Wilson.”
Ninety-third floor. He can make it out there, can’t he—to the door at the end of the hall. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. In the Medbay, he’s safe. He’s fine.
“Peter.” A hand poking at him. “Peter, who’s FRIDAY?”
Cassie’s never met FRIDAY, he thinks, and the thought makes him feel sick. He’s known FRIDAY for a couple years—and then Cassie for… How long did Tony say? Five months. Almost five months. He can’t remember the time passing like that, either. He remembers May. June. And then he remembers thinking it didn’t matter anymore.
“I know you’re not up for talking, that’s okay, hon. Just tell me what month it is?”
He takes a step towards the pair of crutches, forces his legs forward one painful step at a time. Beside the crutches, laid on the floor, is a long leg brace—a row of padded circular metal joints with four sets of closures and a soft cloth-covered pad where his knee should be.
“Dr. Cho left that,” says Cassie, tugging his hand. “She says it’s supposed to help.”
Charlie hates those—Charlie hates those. He’s not supposed to have it. They’ve given him one already, haven’t they? He has an image in his head of Dr. Cho holding it, talking to him. Is it the same one? When he takes a step towards it, his knee fails him—buckling under his own weight. He hits the wall with a groan, pain spiking down his bad leg with such vigor that it makes him gag; he slips against the wall, hand braced on it, and keels down to the floor until all the weight is off of his fucked-up leg. And then he hears the man’s voice again.
“Can you stand? Here–here, it’s okay, let me help… Yeah, grab on to me—there you go…”
Peter climbs to his feet again, leaning entirely on his left leg to avoid the ever-thumping pain of his right. At least he can stand. At least he can still move. It’s not bleeding like it used to—it’s not hurting like it used to, either. Something Dr. Cho gave him, he thinks. Cassie is standing by the door in her hoodie and she’s talking to him, and she’s pointing at the leg brace. “...Mommy says you fell,” she’s saying. “When you were at the courthouse, she says you fell. Messed up your bad leg again.”
Peter doesn’t remember a courthouse. He doesn’t remember falling, either.
Cassie helps him get the brace on, whispering to him the whole time. Apparently, they’ve already done this a few times. When she’s done, he stands, and the weight on his knee is a quarter of what it once was. The pain fading, the pressure easing, and that nausea disappearing as he stands.
It’s better. He feels better.
Cassie gets the door open, and they move out into the hallway. Peter limps against the wall with his braced knee. He still has to hobble with one arm braced against the wall, but he can move a little easier. He forces himself forward even as his panic grows— you know what happens when you go into that hallway—YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS—THE SECOND YOU STEP OUT THERE—
Move! he screams at himself. FUCKING MOVE, PARKER! Inch by inch, hand over hand he pushes himself forward and Cassie is with him, her blue sweatshirt somewhere beside him. He can see those elevator doors get closer and closer, and his hands tremble—he whips his head around, and behind him, and there’s no one behind him.
He drags himself forward again, trips over his bulky, newly-braced knee, and his hand slips over the wall, his stomach lurching—and he braces himself for an explosion of pain as he hits the ground. But his hand catches on something long and smooth and metal. Peter opens his eyes to see what it is:
A railing.
It’s stainless steel—he can smell the metal—and continues all the way down the rest of the hallway. All the way down to the elevator. It shakes him out of his panicked state, and once again he can see the tiled floor in front of him. Only a few more feet, and with the railing to help…
He can make it.
He can make it.
He limps all the way to the elevator with Cassie in tow, and she jams the button for the 93rd floor without a reminder, then hugs his good leg tightly once the door closes. “It’s okay,” he tells her, although he feels sick as soon as the doors closed. Focus, he thinks, try and stay focused. Sarah keeps saying it—she keeps telling him. Stay focused. Upstairs. He’s been there, it’s safe there, it’s going to be fine.
Tony wouldn’t do anything to him up there, would he? He squeezes Cassie’s hand a little harder: be quiet, be still, be quiet, be still. The ride is lightning-quick, though, and it seems like it’s already over by the time it starts.
“ Ninety-third floor,” FRIDAY announces as the elevator slows, and Cassie jolts at the sound, clutching Peter’s hand hard. “Penthouse suite.”
The elevator doors slide open with a ping, and FRIDAY adds, “ Welcome, Peter and Cassie.”
DATE: JULY 28, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
dear Harley
I think I know whats going on with Pt. hes been doing pretty bad recently. wont let me touch him at all. last night fr a second it ws like he forgot wher he was, who I was, + he fought me off again. started screaming his head off. usually hes quiet—or tries to be, he knows how Charlies guys can get. I tried calming him down but he had no clue who I was.
today ws th Same. tried giving him a cognitive test. failed place. failed time. got his name but that’s about it. he was confused—talking to himself, repeating things that I said, and then today I asked him. I had to ask him. I could see it written all over him. I couldnt test him for anything bt I knw the symptoms. symp throat inflam + dysuria. Dx gonorrea Tx 500mg ceftriaxone + phenazopyridin. tried to talk to him about it. couldnt get much more out of him.
later tn they brought Cassie downstairs. dragged her in. she hasnt been down her at all, not since I first got here. she ws bleeding + howling + kicking even as they dragged her inside. they slammed the door behind her + she launched herself at it Harley and hit it and kept hitting it, when I said something she whipped around + started screaming Pts name. someone had beaten her. facial swelling + lip lac, assorted bruising. enough blood on her neck from the lac that I was worried—but she wldnt let me get anywher near her. when I tried she snapped at me, bit + scratchd + kicks untl I backd away. scream hrslf hoarse for Pt. nothing I said nothing I did was helpng. I tried t remembr u at tht age. everythng scared u. everythng ws new + terrifying. I used to
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: JULY 28, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
take you to your docs appointments when y were little + youd just cry + close your eyes + press your head into my chest whenvr u had to get a shot. had to hold y still until the bandaid ws on.
thats what she was doing. eyes squeezed shut. so scared shed wet herself. I tried to make things better, sang her twinkle twinkle little str untl she started to relax. she was nothing like she’d been a month ago Harley it was like treatng a whole new kid. she was violent + terrified + I had to remind her who I was ab a thousand times before she said a wrd to me. “remember me?” I said. “Im Pts doctor.” she didnt say anything back.
she was thinner too. I won her over w some of my food + I remembrd last time she wldnt let me near her w a needle so I told her to close her eyes first—then gave a quick inj 5 mg local lido + put the syringe behind me so she wldnt see it. she was better once it kicked in, once I cleaned up some of the blood, + gripped my shirt the whole time I stitchd up her lip. some ice for her face, + her shoulder—she kept pointing to it so I assumed it hurt—+ they came back for her after a couple hours. I think they forgot she was there.
when they dragged her off she was holding my shirt so tight she almost tore it—screamed + screamed for Pt the whole way out.
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 — 7:34 PM
They take their time showing the kids around their new home one room at a time.
There are 3 wings on the penthouse floor. The main wing, where the kids, the girl’s parents, May, and Tony will be living, the guest wing—which Pepper has already occupied— and the recreational wing, where there is a private pool, personal library, home theater, fitness center, and a spa room, none of which Tony has touched since he got back. They leave those two wings for another day and focus on the main wing.
The first room is the living room—where Happy has installed dozens of the Parker’s old belongings. Their green couch spotted with stains. Their flat screen. A velvet-green armchair. An IKEA-made console with wooden handles. An ugly patterned ottoman. Sheer green curtains, wood coffee table, and several table lamps with red lampshades. A pink-and-white knitted blanket folded over another armchair.
Peter takes a couple limping steps forward, touches the table lamp, and looks back at Tony, blinking a couple times.
“Happy found most of it,” Tony says, needing to break the silence. “Your landlord—she’d sold most of it, donated the rest, but it was all still… around. Just took some time, that’s all.”
He touches the couch, too, and the assorted paintings on the walls, and then moves into the kitchen like he already knows it’s there. They’ve redone the Their well-used pots and pans. It’s even been painted the same color as their old kitchen. Alpine white for the kitchen walls, seafoam green for the cabinets with white trim. Their spice rack, their coffeemaker, even the lacy white curtains at the kitchen window—they’re all there. The dented trash can, the multicolored kitchen towels, the shiny red tea kettle. Everything that could've been found, Happy did find, and they’ve now been returned to their original owners.
Peter moves from one room to the next in a trance, touching the furniture and the walls as he goes. Peter seems a little more mobile with the knee brace on, especially with the new railings Helen installed last week. He uses them as they move from one room to the next, moving and glancing around like he wasn’t borderline comatose until a few days ago.
The last room is Peter’s bedroom—and thanks to Happy, it has all of his treasured belongings. His dresser, his bed, every book on his shelves, even his comic books are stacked on top of his nightstand. His Avengers action figures, his lego sets, and all the clothes they managed to scrounge up that used to be Peter’s. His striped sheets and pillowcases, his navy blue comforter. Even his stained gray rug.
Peter touches each one of the things, and then finds on the desk a couple framed photos—one of his Uncle Ben, another of his friends Ned and MJ, and a third of him and his Aunt May.
And then he sits on the bed. It squeaks underneath him.
Helen automatically points to the next room, starts talking about showing him the guest wing, but Peter isn’t moving like was before, instead smoothing his hand over the comforter over and over again. Cassie tosses her stuffed zebra on the bed and then climbs on beside the teenager, whispering something to him.
For a few minutes Helen keeps trying to get them moving again, and Peter doesn’t respond to her at all; instead, he looks straight at Tony, an unwavering stare, tense and rigid.
Peter won’t say it, Tony thinks. Of course he won’t ask for it. They have to read him the way Cassie does—in the subtle shift of his shoulders, in the tense set of his jaw.
Peter doesn’t want to leave.
“You want to stay here?” Tony asks. Peter’s eyes dart to the photo on the dresser—that one of Peter when he was little, wth his Uncle Ben lifting him high in the air.
Peter’s eyes focus on Tony. With one hand gripping the railing on the wall, he croaks, “Can I?”
“Yeah—yeah, of course. We can—” Tony looks at Sarah. He knows they still have some work to do. They have to clear out the rooms of anything dangerous, stock up the kitchen, get the mirror in Peter’s bathroom removed, and a dozen other things that they’ve already spoken about. “We can do that, can’t we?”
Sarah’s face softens, her eyes on Tony’s. Her chest moves a little—an exhale of relief.
DATE: AUGUST 13, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
Dear Harley
that man nearly killed him. I dont knw what hppned bt th guys said it wasnt Charlie. i already had him once today—he slept pretty much the entire time—and then they took him. then ar 9—Harley they brought him back. someone had beaten him so badly he couldnt see. was barely conscious + was vry disoriented + in a lot of pain. Dx orbtl blowout FX d/t bft c- decr vision + Harley his eyes were so swollen he couldnt see. in so much pain + he kept mumbling all ths things to me. missing 1 premolr frm lower jaw. Nasal fx in 2 places had to reset Tx local lido + realgnd best I could. Dx zygomat fx d/t bft visul deform L + mTBI c- reptd LOC + N+V severe disorient. threw up a couple times before I could get some antiemitics in hm. his jumpsuit was a wreck so I had to wipe down what I could of it, get it somewht clean.
not much I could do for him. gave him as much morphine as I could + IV midazolm to try to get him calmd. thght I was tony stark again. easier to let him think that. went to sleep after a while + I held him th rest of the Time. they were kind—gave me 2 xtra hours w him. he fll asleep in my arms. I hope
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
DATE: AUGUST 13, 2018_________
SUBJECT ID NO: _____________
RX:
he felt safe. bc he hasnt these past few weeks. th short man came back for him when I was holding him. he looked strange, lingered in the doorway like he didnt want to be there. + then he asked if Pt was okay. I said no.
dont think he expctd that answer bc he dropped his hand to his belt + scuffed hs boot on th ground + thn said “hes still sick?”
I said “still a fever”
“but he’ll live?”
“no thanks to you”
he frwned at m. “how much longer then?”
I told him Pt was still vry ill + needed consistent medical care. I told him he shouldn’t leave me. I asked them not to take him. I beggd him not to take hm.
“1 more hour” he said + for a second I watched his eyes drift to Pt in my arms, his jaw tense like he was about to say something else. “ok doc?”
“yes” I said + I thanked him ab 6 times. guy didnt say anthng aftr that. just looked over at Pt for a long while, turned around + left, locked the door behind him. 1 hour into 2. 2 into 3. went by too fast Harley he wasnt ready. he was still sleeping + I asked them again to let him stay but they wldnt. couple of those new military guys took him from me. he was still knockd out + didnt wake.
Love you
Dad
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 — 7:59 PM
After buying several packs of his dad’s old favorite beer from a nearby liquor outlet, Harley downs several of them and decides it’s a perfect idea to find the place where his dad was last.
He veers out to the mountains, drops by a gas station, and asked for a map up Mount Washington. “Oh yeah,” the cashier says. “Been a pretty popular spot ever since that Tony Stark thing went down. You hear about that?”
“Yep,” Harley grumbles.
“Not like you can get inside the damn thing—apparently it’s locked, like, six ways to Sunday, but hey—doesn’t stop people from trying.”
Harley nods halfheartedly.
“That where you’re trying to go?”
“Yep.”
“Well, you can drive up to where the park ranger’s lot is—that’s about as far as you can go by car—and it’s still a couple hours walking from there, so I’d bring some supplies. Not a lot to see there, but if your heart’s set on going, you should probably wait till tomorrow. Gonna rain tonight.”
Harley doesn’t have supplies. He doesn’t even have a rain jacket—just his sweatshirt. “Forget it,” he says, tossing the map back on the counter.
Instead, he drives back to his dad’s house, cracks open another one of those beers, and pulls open those prescription notes on his phone.
He still hasn’t read them all. There’s too many of them, and some of them are so miserable that he can’t bear to lay his eyes on the page. There’s a lot of medical jargon, too, shorthand that he barely understands. He knows a couple terms—Tx for treatment, Pt for patient, maybe, and the rest he’s not sure. He reads on:
—think they would break him. hes been brave all ths time Right? hes been strong, hes been… its been hard, I k its been hard, but… I just didn’t thnk it was possible. I guess it was inevitable. I guess—
There’s an entry on Aug 13th. the handwriting is very shaky and there’s wet smears all over the page, making some of the words very difficult to read. Harley skips it. Any of the ones that look like that, he always skips. He taps open the next entry on his phone:
—he didn’t know wher he was whn he came back. he crawled back into th crner + he was shaking + looked like he’d been Crying + his eyes wer so wide bt couldn’t tell I was there. by the time they took him back hed calmd bt he didn’t know wher he was. Ive see kids in pain you know. of course Ive seen kids in pain. but like this—only near the end. th confusion + th fear + grabbing onto anyone who gets close—terminally ill kids on so many drugs that they cant tell left frm right but it wasnt like this. I dont think its th drugs or Charlie. I think its—
Harley scrolls farther and farther, somewhere into mid-August.
—he said before there was only one. I think its one of the new ones—one I haven’t seen bt he wont say his name. he wont tell me anythng not anymre + he gets confused all the time. abt who I am, wher he is, whats happening. hes stopped accepting food from me. barely sleeps around me. god every day he comes back from that place worse and worse. his healing can’t keep up. theyre killing him Harley they rlly are—
There’s hundreds and hundreds of these pages, half of them filled with medical notes and poorly laid out escape plans. Some in pencil, some in pen. Messier and messier by the day. He scrolls back to July.
—I cant save him no matter how many times I beg + plead none of them will help. they just drag him in here day aftr day + expct me to pick up the pieces. + Ill do it of course Ill do it I just dont know how much longer I can take it. how long before I end up talking to walls like the girls father? how long do I have before I crack? Ive thought about it you know I have Harley. taking some of Pts meds—just to take the edge off. so I could have 1 dreamless night or 1 blissful day. but I cant. Pt needs me. I cant leave him—
Back to August.
—hasnt spoken to me in days. not since he got sick. barely looks at me anymore. came on to me when I got near him. tried to show him it was just me, tried to talk to him bt even looking straight at me he was terrified. he always is. at some point I managd to get close enough to touch him + he screamed Harley he screamed like I was abt to hurt him. kept muttering stuff I cldnt understand. tried to bandage him up quick. gave him smthng for th pain + he started crying. god I wish hed say something. fucking anything. just so I knew he was still in there. fuck that man. fuck all of them.
we have enough morphine. some midazolam. I could make it fast. make it gentle. he wouldnt feel any pain. but theyd take it out on th little girl—or whoevr else they find. Tony starks wife maybe. I heard them talking abt her. their plan B. + apparently shes pregnant. theres nothing I can do Harley + god knows Ive tried. if it happens god I hope its quick. I hope Im there. I just want to make sure hes not alone when he—
Harley’s phone slips from his fingers. The beer’s starting to swell in him, lapping at his nerves, softening the edges of the phone. “Shit,” he says, feeling a little nauseous. He downs half another cup and sets it down on the rug. He picks up his phone and it’s automatically scrolled back to the beginning. May 18th. One of his dad’s first days inside.
—but hes a funny kid. cracked a joke with me today. “straight out of a saw movie huh?” he said showing me his arm. never mind how his legs were stll shaking + hs heart was going a mile a minute hes stll got a sense of humor. “you seen those old movies?”
“they arent old” I said “th first one came out in like 2003”
Pt raises his eye brow at me. “uh like I said man. super old. have u seen the special effcts?’
thn he heard the guys coming down the ladder for him + shut his mouth. looked at me going pale and swallowed. “no chance for an overnight stay?”
“afraid not,” I said.
“shoot,” he said. “well. see you tomorrow.”
when they took him away he didnt fight. he turned back once + one of the guards hit him hard on the back of his hand + he gave in. at least hes still trying. I think its a good sign after everything hes been through. if I were him I wouldve given up a long time—
Harley drops his phone onto the floor.
By seven o’clock the rain is coming down hard and he’s drunk enough that he’s thinking about calling his mom. He tries several times and the third goes straight to a full voicemail box, calls Pepper instead. She doesn’t answer either, but at least he can leave a voicemail, so he does. He starts rambling about coming home, about his dad, about the stupid Avengers, too. “My mom hates me,” he mutters, into his stupid nonresponsive phone. “She fucking hates me. You… You…” He laughs, and the alcohol tilts in him, and he finds himself laughing more. All of a sudden this is all incredible funny. The kid trapped in his own hospital room. His dad’s empty house. His mom’s blocked number. “‘Cause of her I’m not going to college… College! I’m just gonna… I’m just gonna…”
The phone beeps—he’s spoken for too long. Fuck. He takes a few staggery steps to his dad’s front door, throws it open, and launches that stupid phone Pepper gave him into the trees.
He hikes outside with another six-pack, downs his second in fifteen minutes, and launches the bottle at his dad’s house. One misses completely, dropping lamely into the grass. Another smashes spectacularly into the front door, exploding into a spray of glass.
Beer bottle after beer bottle he keeps throwing at his dad’s house, until he’s only got a couple left and he’s so drunk he can scarcely stand, falling dizzy onto the grass clearing until he gets sick all over his father’s front yard. “Fuck you, Dad!” he shouts into the sky, his mouth acidic with the taste of vomit. “Fuck you!”
If his dad hadn’t hiked out of his clinic in May to help some teenage girl, Harley would still have money for college. He’d still have a dad—one he rarely saw, but a dad nonetheless. Why the hell did his savior-complex asshole of a dad have to help every single person who walked past him? Why couldn’t he just help Harley?
He tosses another beer bottle, this one half-empty, and it explodes against the front window, cracking it in a spiderweb of splintered glass. He picks up another, twists off the cap, and hears: “Think you’ve had enough?”
He whips around and the spin makes him almost sick again—he falls onto his side, turns and sees Captain America standing above him with his arms folded. “Dude,” he says. “What the hell?”
Steve Rogers plucks the beer unceremoniously from his hand and fishes into his pocket, pulls out what looks like the shattered version of the phone Harley had launched into the woods earlier. “Sorry, kid,” he says. “Can’t drunk dial the CEO of Stark Industries and not expect her to send someone after you.”
On the screen, Harley can see it—thirteen missed calls from Pepper Potts.
Oops.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and the words come out of him half-formed. “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t… Uh…”
Everything’s still hazy from the beer but man, that guy got here fast. Like a damn superhero. Then he looks behind Steve and in the clearing there’s the Quinjet, still whirring loudly, blowing the grass nearby in all directions. “Don’t worry about it,” Steve Rogers says. The man’s eyes drag down his shirt, and he knows there’s still vomit there. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“What are you, my dad?” he jokes, and it comes out all miserable and flat. The puke is still drying in his shirt.
The Quinjet whirs behind him. As the jet ramp lowers to the ground, Steve helps Harley forward, an arm under his, and onto the plane.
DATE: AUGUST 22 2018 ____________
SUBJECT ID NO: _______________
RX:
dear Harley
someones here!! captain america—someone shot him + I stitchd him up but hes enhanced so h was already healing up by the time I pulled the bullets out. he said hes with a police officer bt I havnt seen her. I kept asking and asking him questns bt he wouldnt tell me much. kept looking at me like I was gonna shoot him too.
“Im not one of them” I told him. “they took me in May.” I told him I have a family. I tod him I was trying to get back to you. I told him wed tried and tried to get out + no, I dont work for them.”
“your not w hydra?” he said at last.
“no” I said. “of course not. Im only here bc they beat up that kid so bad they almost killed him”
“kid?” captain america said amused. “I mean I wouldnt call a 28yo man a kid but sure.”
“wait - you didnt come here for… who are y here for?”
“Im here for Charlie?” he says. “white male, six two, crown tattoo on the back of his neck. brown hair, brown eyes…”
Ive never seen the back of his neck. even if I had, his hairs long enough now that it would cover it. “Charlies the one running this thing” I explained. “hes… hes the one who took the kids…”
“what kids?” he asked.
suddenly I had this horrible feeling. maybe I was wrong. maybe hes not here to save us. maybe hes working with Charlie—maybe hes here to do more damage to Peter. hes trying to trick you, hes trying to get information from you. “nevermind” I said + I finished stitching him up.
the man could sense it too. he stopped talking + let me work.
when they took him away they forced him into handcuffs, gave him a dose of super sedative, and hauled him away. I was wrong I thought. hes not working with them. then I wished Id told him about Pt. I wished Id screamed for him to get help, shouldve grabbed the man and begged for him to help him. I mean someone will coming looking for captain america right? right?
its 8 oclock now + they havent given him to me. I dont know whats going on. they always give him to me at 8. I have a feeling hes dead. oh god what if hes dead.
I hear some noise tho. I think someone is coming. someone new—the police officer I think! shes yelling at the door coming to help! Im going to get Pt out of here. Ill see u again Harley Im coming home Im coming home. oh thank god thank god it’s over. love you love you love you Harley
See you soon
PHYSICIAN ID NO: _______________
DISPENSE AS WRITTEN