Archive of Our Own

PETER

“Peter, suture the head lac in Exam 2.”

“But the mesocaval shunt, I thought I could observe.”

“They need you down here today, the ER’s swamped.”

“But Dr. Morgenstern—”

“Go, Peter.”

A clipboard lands in Peter Benton’s hands. Before he could protest further, David Morgenstern, the surgical attending, is already a blur of blue dashing up the stairs.

Peter grips the board so tightly in his hands that it bends. He glares at the chart as if it is personally responsible for his current predicament.

The med student closes his eyes and takes a deep inhale.

Peter Benton is here to become a surgeon.

He studied his ass off to get to the top of his class, worked nights and weekends all through high school and undergrad, took out mountains of student loans, and watched his parents work multiple jobs and go without. He promised himself those sacrifices won’t be in vain—he has his sight locked on the target like a homing missile.

But over the last several weeks, he has been exiled to the ER, catching vomit and sewing up drunks.

Not for much longer. Three weeks and four days.

Three weeks and four days until he finishes his MS3 clinical rotations. When he returns in the fall, Peter will begin his surgical sub-I. Then he will scrub in on real procedures in the OR. Then he will actually make a difference.

Peter is visualizing himself performing the mesocaval shunt when he pulls back the curtain in Exam 2.

He does a double take, because instead of the passed-out drunk he was expecting, there’s a kid perched on the edge of the bed. Sitting in the chair next to him is a gray-haired man, arms crossed tightly in front of his wide chest. Both faces swivel toward the new arrival.

“Finally. We’ve been waiting for hours,” the man says, glancing down exaggeratedly at his wristwatch.

Peter kicks himself for being too preoccupied with self-pity to read the chart. Quickly perusing it now, he sees that the patient is a nineteen-year-old male who had a brief LOC, hit his head on a shower handle in the locker room when he passed out, resulting in a three-inch occipital scalp laceration.

Dr. Fremont, the resident who signed off on the chart, ordered the standard tests and scans. Head CT came back clear. Blood tests were a bit off but not enough for admission. Peter is supposed to suture the scalp lac and send him on his way.

“Sorry for the wait. I’m Peter Benton.”

“Hi, Dr. Benton. I’m John. John Carter,” the child introduces himself.

No, not a child. Nineteen years old, only five years younger than Peter. But he looks like a kid while Peter hasn’t felt like one in a long, long time.

Wide, brown eyes sit beneath down-turned brows, reminiscent of a forlorn puppy. A mop of ear-length brown hair contrasts against too-pale skin. There’s a cherubic roundness to his features, making the sunken shadows beneath his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks even more pronounced.

The boy flashes a warm smile, but a twinge of wrongness tickles the back of Peter’s mind. He brushes it aside.

“Hi, John. I’m a med student. I’ll be helping you today.”

John leans forward, eyes growing wider. “Oh, that’s awesome. I’m pre-med. Well, I’m a business major now, but I’m taking some pre-med courses. Hopefully I can switch junior year, if my family lets me.”

The man next to him clears his throat. “How long is this going to take? Can you patch him up so we can get back to campus, or do we need to wait for an actual doctor?”

Peter clocks the Northwestern Athletics logo on the breast of the man’s jacket. “Sir, you are…?”

“Wrestling coach. Coach Simmons. I brought Carter in after practice. I don’t even think he needs stitches. Kid’s got a thick skull.”

The coach grabs John’s head and turns the back toward Peter. John lets out a barely audible hiss of pain. The hair at the base of his skull is matted down with blood, and the back collar of his hospital gown is stained a dark maroon. But the bleeding does appear to have stopped.

“I need to suture that cut, Mr. Simmons. Shouldn’t take too long. Why don’t you go grab a coffee in the cafeteria? It’s right down the hall.”

John’s shoulders visibly loosen when Simmons walks out of the room. Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Your coach seems intense.”

“Sorry about that,” John says, offering Peter an apologetic smile, brows sloping down even further. “He’s not so bad. He’s just stressed. We have a big match this Sunday, and I’ve cost us a lot of prep time. I feel terrible for causing all this trouble.”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to pass out.”

John’s gaze shifts to his lap. “I feel so stupid. Don’t know what happened.”

“Well, your blood glucose level was pretty low. Have you been eating properly?”

The kid’s eyes dart up to Peter, then back down to his lap again. He picks at a loose thread on his gown. “Oh yeah, I eat plenty. I just didn’t have time before practice today. Dumb, I know.”

Peter stares at the kid, not quite sure how to respond.

“You should remember to eat, especially before exercising.”

No shit, Sherlock. Peter internally berates himself.

But John looks up and nods intently, like Peter just dispensed a piece of ancient wisdom.

“Yes, I promise. It won’t happen again.”

Noting the pallor of the kid’s face, Peter asks, “Have you had anything to eat since you got here?”

“That nice nurse, Haleh, brought me a juice box and a Jell-O.”

It’s not enough, but it’s better than nothing. Peter pulls the suture tray over and adjusts the overhead light to his liking.

“Okay, John. I’m going to have you scoot back so you’re sitting all the way at the edge of the bed…A little closer to me...Tilt your head forward…Good.”

Now that the boy’s back is right in front of Peter, he can see the knobs of his spine and rungs of his ribs through the opening of the hospital gown. The skin stretching over them looks sheer, barely concealing the sharp angles protruding underneath.

Peter wants to run his palm over the expanse, as though he is smoothing out the creases on a rumpled sheet.

Focus.

“I’m going to numb the area, then clean and suture the laceration. You may feel some pressure. Let me know if it hurts, okay?” Peter is glad he sounds steadier than he feels.

John nods. Then after a beat, he asks in a small voice, “Do you…do you have to shave my head?”

The corner of Peter’s mouth quirks up. “Yep, it’s all gotta go, pretty boy.”

John deflates like a balloon. “Oh…okay.” The resigned whisper immediately makes Peter feel like a piece of crap.

“I’m just kidding! No head shaving. I’ll just smooth your hair out of the way with some petroleum jelly.”

“Really?” The boy perks back up instantaneously. “Thanks, Dr. Benton.”

Dr. Benton. He doesn’t correct the kid. Peter likes the way it sounds coming from John.

When the irrigation begins, John flinches, then immediately stills.

“Sorry,” the boy croaks out.

“Want me to numb it more? I can apply more lidocaine.”

“It’s okay, I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to. If it hurts, I’ll numb it more.”

“Whatever you think is best,” John acquiesces.

Peter is of the opinion that most teenage boys are idiotic, self-centered assholes, especially white boys from private schools who have never had to work a single day in their lives. But John Carter seems different. Sure, he must still have an idiotic streak in him, or else he wouldn’t have worked out on an empty stomach. And he’s definitely not flipping burgers to pay for textbooks.

But something about John makes Peter want to slow down, to be extra gentle as he washes away the dried blood, and weave the needle through the delicate tissues.

Instead of rushing through the procedure so he can run to the OR, Peter finds himself focusing solely on the patient in front of him.

After the initial flinch, the boy stays as still as a statue. The only sounds he makes are soft breaths that cause his back to expand and contract almost imperceptibly.

“You doing all right?” Peter asks after the first few stitches.

“Mmhmm.”

“Any more pain?”

“No.”

Normally, Peter hates making small talk with patients. The ones under general anesthesia are his favorites. But he finds himself speaking again.

“So wrestling. How do you like it?”

“Northwestern has a great program. My father was on Coach Simmons’ team back when he was in school. We had a couple of guys in the conference championship last year.”

“That’s great, but I asked how you like it.”

John falls silent for a moment before answering.

“It’s…hard some days, with practices and matches and classes, on top of trying to make—” The boy catches himself. “I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky I even made the team. The others say it’s only because of my dad, but I’m doing well in my weight class.”

Peter listens as he continues to suture.

“They’re going to give me so much shit for fainting like a girl in the damn shower,” John groans woefully. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Those guys sound like dicks,” Peter is surprised to hear himself say.

A giggle rings out, light and melodic, making John’s shoulders quake. “That's giving them too much credit.”

Peter smiles. He presses a hand gently to the kid’s temple, reminding him to hold still, and pulls the thread taut with his other hand.

The two fall into a comfortable silence as the buzzing of the ER drones on outside the windows. John’s breathing slows and deepens. If the boy wasn’t holding his posture so perfectly still, Peter would think he is asleep.

After tying off the last knot, Peter sets the needle down on the tray and peels off his gloves. “All done.”

“Oh.”

There’s a note of disappointment in John’s voice, but Peter must be mistaken.

“Thank you, Dr. Benton.” The kid twists his body to glance back. Brown eyes blink blearily, a hazy film of exhaustion dimming them.

“You’re welcome. I made sure the sutures are nice and neat. It shouldn’t scar much.”

A warm smile lifts John’s face and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“You can change back into your clothes now,” Peter instructs as he stands.

John nods, then hops off the bed.

A couple of things grab Peter’s attention.

First, the boy is tall. Almost as tall as Peter. This surprises him.

Second, John’s lanky form is swaying like a palm tree in a tropical storm. Before Peter’s brain processes what this means, Peter’s body is already moving on reflex. He swings around the bed and reaches John just before the kid goes down.

The boy topples forward into Peter’s chest, his face burying itself into Peter’s left shoulder.

“Whoa, easy there.” Peter stumbles back a step before finding his footing again. He wraps his hands around John’s arms to help keep them both upright.

John groans and lifts his head off of Peter. He finds his balance, but doesn’t shake off Peter’s grip.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There’s a flush of embarrassment on the peaks of John’s cheeks. He ducks his head to hide from Peter’s probing gaze, and when he looks up again, the flush has faded to reveal an ashen complexion underneath.

“John, you better sit back down.”

“No, I’m fine. Just got up too fast.”

“We should check your blood sugar—” Before Peter can finish, Coach Simmons reappears.

“Alright, Carter. Let’s get out of here.” The man pulls a zip-up hoodie out of the hospital-issued personal belongings bag and pushes it into John’s arms. “Put that on. Let’s go.”

“Wait. Mr. Simmons, John’s not ready.”

“We’ve been here for four hours. He’s ready. He’s fine. We’re leaving.”

“But the aftercare instructions—”

“Don’t you have a pamphlet or something?”

Peter reluctantly hands over a sheet of paper. Simmons grabs it and stuffs it into the bag.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Benton.” John’s eyes linger on Peter’s.

“Come back in ten days to get those sutures removed.” Peter feels like he should say more, do more. A voice inside yells at him not to let John go.

But Simmons is already striding out the door. John glances back at Peter as he scrambles after the older man.

“Call if you have questions,” Peter yells out.

He sees a head of messy brown hair bobbing down the bustling hallway. Soon, it disappears completely.

JOHN

John always liked to eat.

He loved burgers and pizzas like every other kid, but he loved the minestrone soup and fresh gnocchi Gamma’s cook made even more.

John was never a picky eater. Not like Bobby.

From the day Bobby was old enough to eat solid food, he hardly let anything that wasn't beige pass his lips. The cook always made sure there was buttered pasta or freshly baked bread available for the elder Carter boy at every meal, no matter what was served to everyone else.

Toward the end, when leukemia devoured Bobby’s body, and the chemo chewed up what was left, John’s brother stopped eating altogether.

John remembers asking the doctor what the stuff going into the tube in his brother’s nose was. She said it was food to make him strong. John tried to imagine swallowing food through his nose, and it made him gag. He hoped it wasn’t quite so awful for Bobby. At least it was beige.

Bobby is gone now. And John is nineteen. He knows what an NG tube is, and what leukemia does to a child’s body, because he’s going to be a doctor one day, just like the ones who took care of Bobby and answered John’s questions.

John is lanky and slim; he took after their father, Jack, while Bobby took after their mother, green-eyed and petite. John always ate whatever he wanted without worrying about weight, even as most of the other boys at boarding school grew round or bulky.

But that changed when John made the cut for the Northwestern wrestling team (Jack Carter’s championship podium photo still hangs on the locker room wall)—on the condition that he competes at a weight class below his previous one.

Now, there’s a sinkhole between his heart and his stomach. It opens up whenever he thinks about the scale in the locker room or his father’s look of disappointment. John doesn’t want that pit to grow, so he clenches his jaw, tells his growling gut to shut up, and tries to ignore the ache deep inside.

At dawn, he hits the tracks, stomach empty and heart pounding. After his run, John chugs a black coffee on his way to the lecture hall. Before afternoon practice, he might grab a hard-boiled egg or a beef jerky. Sometimes, his limbs feel leaden and his head fuzzy, but John never lets that stop him from leaving everything on the mat.

But no matter how doggedly John grasps for control, the sinkhole never seems to shrink, only expands. Some days it grows big enough to swallow John whole.

On days like that, John finds himself tucked in the corner of his dorm room, back against the walls. A circle of empty candy bar wrappers lies waste around him, evidence of his gluttony and weakness.

He shoves fistfuls of loot from the vending machine down his throat. They taste disgustingly sweet and bitterly plastic at the same time. His jaw aches from chewing the sticky gunk, and his tongue is rubbed raw. Even as he continues to choke down the candy bars, tears leak out the corners of his eyes, because he knows he fucked up for nothing— nothing will ever be enough to fill this hole inside.

Eventually, John drags himself off the floor and down the hall to the communal bathroom, one hand clutching his swollen belly. He makes sure the room is empty before dropping to his knees in a stall and shoving two fingers down his throat. It only takes a second for him to gag, heave, then regurgitate everything he just devoured. The splattering of his vomit in the toilet bowl echoes between the walls.

When the convulsions finally stop, John collapses in a heap on the urine-stained floor. His body trembles, his face is pale, tears and sweat mingle and roll down his cheeks. The gaping hole inside him is hungrier than ever.

The boy, hollow inside yet pregnant with shame, pulls his spent body back to his room and crawls into bed.

Before closing his eyes, he double-checks that the alarm is set for 4:30 am.

No matter what, John always shows up—he is there for every run, every workout, every practice.

John has been on the team for almost two full seasons, and he has made weight every single match.

He’s not the strongest or the fastest, but he makes up for it by trying the hardest. Secretly, he thinks that maybe if he makes it to the conference championships next year, his father will finally come watch him compete. Maybe if John’s name is on the leaderboard, Jack Carter might remember that one of his sons lived.

John fantasizes about meeting his father’s eyes in the stands, and seeing them light up like when Jack used to recount his wrestling accolades to Bobby and John. Maybe Jack will clap John on the back and say, “You did good, son.”

But today, John puts all those dreams in jeopardy when he miscalculates.

The combination of nerves about Sunday’s match and dread about the weigh-in has been making the hole in his gut expand all week steadily. He loses control Thursday, stuffs himself to the brim, then ends the night on the bathroom floor.

By Friday afternoon’s practice, John’s muscles are shaking, and his head hums like a bug zapper. He’s drenched in cold sweat as he lies trembling on the mat. Hoyt Wilson, the senior who put him there, snickers as he climbs off of John.

John knows he needs to get his shit together before the match with Illinois on Sunday. He’s trying to come up with a plan when the steam of the shower hits him, and his vision goes gray. Next thing he knows, he’s lying naked on the filthy shower floor, watching pink water swirl down the drain.

Beneath the pounding streams hitting his face, John vaguely registers voices calling for Coach Simmons, who ends up driving him to the ER for liability reasons more than actual concern. John leans forward the entire car ride so the drenched towel he’s holding to the back of his head doesn’t stain Coach Simmons’ leather upholstery.

The ER trip turns into a much longer ordeal than either of them bargained for. Coach Simmons grows more and more exasperated as the minutes tick by, just as the gaping hole grows in John’s chest. The coach is about to grab John and leave when the nice doctor arrives.

Dr. Benton is a soothing balm on an open wound in every sense of the word. John finds comfort in the doctor’s touch and words—comfort that he doesn’t deserve. The encounter is brief like a fleeting dream.

Back in the car, John presses his fingertips into the jagged line at the base of his skull to make sure that it really happened.

The drive back to campus is suffocatingly tense. When the silence becomes too much to bear, John says, “I’m sorry.”

“You should be. You can’t pull a stunt like that two days before a match. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should take you off the roster on Sunday.”

The red taillights outside the windshield grow blurry and out of focus. John’s head throbs like it’s still cracked open. He can hear the sinkhole moaning as it expands.

You’re weak, John. You don’t have what it takes.

His father’s voice bounces in his skull.

“Please, sir. Give me another chance. I can do better.”

John loses on Sunday.

In fact, he doesn’t just lose; he gets trounced by an Illinois red-shirt first year.

Those twenty points John costs the team don’t matter much in the end, since the rest of NU doesn’t fare much better, but John gets the brunt of the scorn.

Perez and Wilson shove him to the ground on their way out of the locker room. John bites his lip to hold back a whimper when his already abused ribs scream upon impact.

After the air returns to John’s lungs, he props himself up on one elbow and brings the other hand to the base of his skull. The cut that the doctor patched up on Friday is throbbing. John’s not surprised to find that there’s blood on his fingertips. Maybe he tore a stitch. He can’t be bothered to investigate further.

John knows he needs to work harder, get stronger, or he’ll be off the team next year. He sees it in the way the others look at him, and hears it in the way the Coach talks and doesn’t talk to him.

He tries, he really does, but the sinkhole keeps getting bigger and deeper.

He has a new routine.

Wake up. Run. Class. Practice. Binge. Throw up. Sleep.

He throws up every night now.

And some mornings too.

He wakes up tangled in the sheets, still drenched in sweat from a nightmare, and goes straight to heaving into the sink in his room. He hates how the acidic scent of bile lingers all day, so he tries to make it to the bathroom if he can.

It’s disgusting and fucked up, he knows. But the thing is, it works. He starts to feel better. He feels stronger. The coach even pats him on the back once.

Then one day, after an especially forceful session, there are a few drops of red dripping down the side of the porcelain bowl. Just a few, so John ignores them.

The day after that, there is more. But John feels better, so he looks away and flushes.

PETER

It is the last Monday of Peter’s MS3 clinical rotation. He cannot wait to get out of here. He has a summer internship lined up at Presbyterian, then he will be back in the fall for his surgical sub-I with Morgenstern. Peter is practically vibrating.

“Incoming trauma! Peter, I want you with me on this one,” Dr. Monroe bellows as she stalks toward the ambulance bay entrance.

Peter jogs after her.

Not a second too soon. The sliding doors open, and in come two paramedics pushing a gurney with a patient strapped on top.

“Nineteen-year-old male. Dorm mate found him passed out in the bathroom, bleeding from the mouth. There was bloody vomit found in the toilet. Not sure how long he was down for. Heart rate 50bpm, BP 60/40, pulse ox 93 on 100% O2 by mask. We started a saline drip in the rig.”

“Alright, let’s get him into Trauma One,” the attending commands.

Peter grabs hold of the head of the gurney. When he looks down, a wave of recognition hits him.

The boy’s unconscious face is smeared with blood, half obscured by the oxygen mask, but Peter has definitely seen that mop of brown hair and those sloped eyebrows before.

“Hey, what’s the kid’s name?” Peter asks Doris, one of the paramedics.

“Um, John. John Carter.”

Peter almost stumbles.

“On my count. One, two, three.”

The kid is weighs almost nothing for someone his height.

“CBC, chem 7, lytes and tox screen, type and screen for four, and an upper endoscopy.”

“You got it, doctor,” Haleh answers.

“Hang a unit of O neg on the infuser. Let’s squeeze one in him. He’s in shock. He needs fluid resuscitation, now.”

Everyone is moving in a synchronized blur. Peter tries to do his part, but he can’t help but stare at John’s too-still face.

What happened to you, John?

“Peter, you know him?” Dr. Monroe asks, clocking the way Peter’s eyes are glued to the boy.

“Uh, I sutured him a couple weeks ago. He came in with a head lac after LOC.”

“He was here before? Someone grab his chart! In the meantime, anything you can remember that may be of value, Mr. Benton?”

Peter pauses, thinking back to his conversation with John that night. Remember the boy’s shy smile.

“He’s a college wrestler. He passed out after practice because he forgot to eat that day.”

As the words leave his mouth, Peter and Dr. Monroe lock eyes. The same realization dawns upon both of them at the same time.

“This is most likely a severe case of Mallory Weiss syndrome. The bleeding’s probably caused by a tear in his esophagogastric junction from severe vomiting. Page the gastroenterologist, tell them we have a bulimia nervosa patient with severe MWS that needs an EGD and endoscopic repair.”

Peter’s heart sinks.

He should have caught this. How did he not see it then? John needed help, and Peter let him walk right out of those doors.

The med student is about to confess his oversight when a moan drifts from the table. Peter quickly turns his attention back to John.

The boy blinks slowly. Dark lashes flutter against pallid cheeks smeared with red. Hazy pools emerge. John moans again.

“Hey John. You’re in the hospital. Can you look at me?”

The boy’s eyes roam sluggishly around the room until they land on Peter’s face. John blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus.

“Hello.” Peter’s lips curl up ever so slightly. “It’s Peter Benton. Do you remember me?”

After a beat, John bobbles his chin slightly.

“Good, good. We’re going to take good care of you.”

A tear slips out of the corner of the boy’s eye. It trails down his temple, soaking into his matted hair. Another tear follows the same path. Then another. And another.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Peter reaches out and squeezes John’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV catheter or pulse ox reader.

The boy’s fingers curl around Peter’s softly. Then suddenly, he pulls his hand out of Peter’s grasp as his features scrunch up. He claws at the oxygen mask on his face. Neck and chest straining.

Peter anticipates what’s about to happen. He pulls off the mask and turns John to his side.

The boy begins to vomit. Thick red liquid gargles out of his lips. He chokes and sputters, coughs, then more spills out of him, splashing onto the checkered linoleum floor, splattering onto Benton’s shoes.

Peter clenches the boy’s shoulder with one hand and supports his chest with the other. He feels the muscle spasms beneath his palm. Helpless, he can only watch the pool of red grow until John finally collapses back onto the bed.

His eyes squeeze shut.

“Hurts,” the boy wheezes out, followed by a broken sob.

“I know, John. Stay with me, okay?” Peter’s heart thunders so loudly inside his ribcage he can hardly hear his own voice. “Someone get him some morphine! He’s in pain!”

Several pairs of eyes turn to the med student, but at the desperation on his face, no one tells him to mind his tone.

Dr. Monroe nods to Haleh, who quietly fills up a syringe and pushes it into John’s IV.

“What do you have for me?” The double doors to the trauma room slam open. The gastroenterologist on call, Dr. Lee, marches in like he owns the place.

“Nineteen-year-old with suspected severe MWS, went into hypovolemic shock. Stabilized after three units of O neg. Still actively bleeding. He needs an EGD to confirm diagnosis and most likely endoscopic hemoclips,” Dr. Monroe rattles off her assessment.

Peter listens but doesn’t take his eyes off John’s face, which has now gone slack, making him look even younger. His eyes are half-lidded and cloudy under the fog of morphine.

“Alright, I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s get him up to the GI lab.”

The nurses are already unhooking John from the various monitors. Peter feels a surge of panic when they unlock the wheels of the gurney.

“Dr. Lee, can I assist?”

The older man gives Peter a perplexed look.

“Didn’t you already complete your gastroenterology rotation, Mr. Benton? I have two other med students waiting upstairs. We don’t have room for a third in the lab.”

“But—”

Dr. Monroe cuts in, “You can visit John later. Let him go.”

Peter looks down, realizing that he’s still gripping John’s shoulder. He reluctantly opens his fingers.

After the gurney rolls out of the room, Peter is left standing in the middle of Trauma One, staring at the blood splatters on his white tennis shoes.

A five-car pile-up comes in at 7 PM. Two are DOA. They stabilize four majors and send them up to the ORs. Six minors get sutured and monitored in curtains. Peter gets pulled in a million different directions. By the time things quiet down, he can’t tell which way is up.

Peter doesn’t clock out until almost midnight. He’s so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. But before he leaves, he heads up the elevator in search of his former patient.

When he walks down the halls on the fifth floor, the lights are dimmed. He asks after John at the nurses’ station. The nurse, Dolly, glances at the clock and reminds Peter to keep it down. Peter tells her he won’t disturb the patient, just wants to take a quick look at his chart.

The med student tentatively pushes open the door and pokes his head into the darkened room. A ribbon of light from the hallway spills through the crack, providing enough illumination for Peter to see the figure in the bed.

The boy is turned away from the door, curled up on his side under the thin blanket. Peter wishes his face was visible.

Peter tiptoes closer to the bed. The numbers on the monitors are satisfactory. He carefully picks up the chart, and holds it in the dim light to read the scribbled handwriting.

The procedure went smoothly. The tear was repaired, and there’s no active bleeding.

Peter frowns when he sees there’s a transfer request to a private medical center, scheduled for 8 am tomorrow.

Why? John should stay here. He needs to be monitored for at least a week at the hospital.

The med student is so wrapped up in the revelation he almost doesn’t notice the movement on the bed.

“Doctor Benton?”

The hoarse whisper startles Peter. His head jerks up to find a pair of bleary eyes in the narrow streak of light. A nasal cannula sits beneath his nose. His skin is paper white, but at least it’s no longer covered in blood.

“John, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

The boy shakes his head. “I’m glad…Thank you. For coming. For everything.”

Peter swallows, his mouth suddenly bone dry.

“About that. Last time I treated you, I should have caught…”

John is shaking his head again. “No. This isn’t on anyone but me. It’s my own fault.”

Peter’s brows knit together when he sees John’s face turn away from him and toward the shadows.

“It’s a disease, John. This isn’t your fault.”

The boy doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes in the darkness.

Peter sighs, looking back down at the chart in his hands.

“Why are you being transferred?”

“My family. They requested it after the doctor called them.”

“You need to be monitored here, not at some private facility.”

“Dr. Benton…”

“Have they even seen you in person? Do they know what you were like when you were brought in here? How you almost died?”

“Dr. Benton, please. I’m tired.”

“John—” Peter stops himself when the boy curls up into a ball on his side.

The older man sighs. The boy on the bed looks so small and alone in the darkness.

But what can Peter do?

“I’ll let you rest. If I don’t see you tomorrow…Take care of yourself, John.”

There is no reply.

Peter turns and shuts the door behind him.

Four Years and Three Months Later

“That’s the first tailored white coat I’ve ever seen.”

Greene, Lewis, and Ross are gawking at something like a group of lemmings. Curiosity pulls Peter into the fray.

“Think he knows anything?” Greene continues.

Peter can see now they’re staring at a new medical student by admit, rocking on the balls of his feet. He nervously flaps a clipboard in his hands, then accidentally taps it on the call bell, setting off a shrill ding. The kid glances around like he just got caught committing grand larceny.

A memory or a dream flashes in the senior surgical resident’s mind. Peter straightens.

Those wide, brown eyes. He remembers them.

“I think that’s your student, Benton.”

“Hm?”

“I said that’s your student. Go talk to him before he runs home to his mommy.” Ross elbows Peter in the ribs.

“Oh. Right.”

Peter approaches with an outstretched hand.

“Peter Benton.”

The boy’s face lights up like the sky on the 4th of July.

“John Carter. Surgical student. Third year.”

John takes Peter’s hand into his own. His grasp is firm and warm.

“Good. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

THE END