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Dennis left the farm at 5:00 p.m., driving Trinity’s dented Twingo, waving to Amy. The heat was almost unbearable inside the small metal cabin, which had been baking all day under the August sun. His muscles ached from hauling the now-dry bales of hay into the barn, hay that would feed the cows through the winter. He rolled his aching shoulders and then wiped his burning, sweat-drenched forehead. He couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment to drink a big glass of water and take a Tylenol; the headache that had started during his shift with the Street Team this morning was now unbearable. He wondered if there would be anything to eat in the fridge. His blood sugar was probably a little low, which would also explain the muscle weakness.
His eyes were starting to close when a call from Trinity snapped him back to attention. Damn it. He was suddenly exhausted. He had to pull himself together—he was driving.
“Yep?”
“I’ve been waiting for you for two hours. It’s our Drag Race afternoon.”
Dennis’s heart sank to the pit of his chest.
“Fuck, Trin, I’m sorry—I was at Amy’s. I’m on my way, I’ll be there soon.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Wait, I—”
Trinity had hung up, and a wave of guilt washed over him. He slammed his sweaty hand down on the steering wheel. Shit. If he wasn’t at the hospital, he was out with the Street Team. As soon as he was done, he’d go to Amy’s place. He hadn’t seen Trinity in a long time. He’d get home late, and she’d already be in bed. He’d sleep for a few hours and get up early to start his shift in the ER.
His mind was growing increasingly foggy, and Dennis slowed down, trying to focus on the scorching asphalt that was producing visible waves of heat. He focused on the unbearable throbbing deep inside his skull, on his dry mouth, on the heat that surrounded him like a vise. No matter how much he rolled down the window, only hot air whipped against his face. He could feel the sweat running down his burning neck.
When he pulled up in front of the apartment, he got out of the car with trembling legs, feeling nauseous. As he opened the apartment door, Dennis couldn’t remember how he’d managed to climb the stairs. He barely remembered the walk. He had only one desire: to collapse on his bed for a few minutes.
“Hey, I’m home,” he managed to stammer.
His head was spinning, and he was overcome by dizziness. He braced himself against the wall and began to move slowly toward his bedroom. There, he took off his T-shirt. It didn’t help much. He collapsed onto his mattress, feeling as if he were on fire. He let his eyes close.
* * *
“Hey, I’m home.”
Trinity, sitting on the couch, didn’t even bother to look up or answer him. She was angry at Dennis. Angry that he was never home, angry that he no longer ate the avocados she bought for him, even though she claimed they were hers. Angry that she spent most of her evenings alone, ruminating. But above all, she was angry at herself for having become so attached to this Huckleberry presence in her life. And even more angry that she couldn’t bring herself to be happy for him, instead feeling a wave of growing jealousy toward Amy. She was filled with shame.
The knot in the pit of her stomach hadn’t gone away for several days, and a kind of worry about Dennis was growing as well. She no longer knew where the line between worry and hidden jealousy lay, and she hated herself for that, too. Still, Trinity had noticed the worried glances Robby was casting at Dennis, whose dark circles were becoming more pronounced every day. She’d heard the whispers between Jack and Robby as they shared their concerns about the workload Dennis was taking on, juggling his studies, shifts, the street team, and now Amy’s farm.
But she didn’t know what to do. And suddenly, a horrible part of her wanted Dennis to realize it on his own, once he’d cracked under the pressure. The thought made her feel sick.
Trinity stayed on the couch for another hour, staring at the wall, before getting up, resigned: she was going to help Dennis. She owed him that much. Even if he might end up hating her, she had to, as a friend, make him realize that this lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. And if that helped her get her best friend back, that was just a collateral benefice, right?
She stood up and knocked on his bedroom door.
“Hey, fuckleberry. We need to talk.”
Nothing.
“Den?”
Only the almost unbearable heat of their non-air-conditioned apartment answered her. And suddenly, an alarm started ringing in her head.
“Dennis, open the door—I’m worried!”
Her breathing quickened.
“Open this fucking door!”
Trinity opened it herself—with a sudden, violent shove—reassured that he hadn’t locked it. But when she saw her friend’s motionless body, flushed from the heat and covered in sweat, she was overcome by a rush of adrenaline.
“Fuck.”
In two strides she was at his bedside, touching his burning forehead and damp skin. She began frantically rubbing his sternum.
“Dennis, can you hear me? Open your eyes!”
His eyes opened slowly; an effort too great for what little strength he had left.
“S’too hot,” he whispered in a breath.
Trinity swallowed hard.
“Yeah, I fucking bet. Do you—”
But Dennis’s eyes were closing again. She began shaking him vigorously.
“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me.”
The two blue eyes reappeared, but his gaze passed right through her. Trinity’s breath caught in her throat.
“Dennis, eyes on me. Can you tell me where you are?”
Dennis’s slurred speech seemed to produce a sound that Trinity could barely make out.
“F-field? S’ too warm.”
This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all, and Trinity could feel panic seizing her. A raw, violent panic. The kind of panic that makes you lose your bearings, and she didn’t have time for that.
“What year is it, Dennis?! Look at me!”
She was practically shouting now, and her hands, which were gripping Dennis’s collar tightly, were shaking.
“I-I don’t—”
The sentence was cut off, barely past his dry lips; his muscles suddenly stiffened, and his mouth twisted into a grimace that would remain burned into Trinity’s mind for a long time to come. He was seized by violent convulsions, his limbs rigid.
The breath Trinity was about to take caught in her throat, and she watched helplessly, almost paralyzed, as the scene unfolded before her. That was it. Panic had overtaken her. She was losing her composure. She grabbed her phone and dialed the first number that came to mind.
Robby picked up on the third ring just as the convulsions finally stopped.
“Trinity? Is everything okay?”
“Dennis, Dennis, he’s not okay. He had a seizure. He’s—he’s way too hot—”
She wanted to hit herself. She had to regain control. She was a doctor, for God’s sake! Here she was, hyperventilating after witnessing a seizure, when just yesterday she’d had her hands inside someone’s fucking chest!
“Trinit—”
“I-it’s heatstroke. I didn’t see it coming, I should have, and I haven’t called 911 yet, and—and he was confused. I didn’t take his temperature. I should go get some ice packs—”
All her thoughts were pouring out at once; she was starting to run out of breath.
“Trin, breathe—”
“I’m such a fucking failure, and—and I didn’t even check how long the seizures lasted. Fuck!”
“Sweetheart, listen to me.”
Her world was falling apart, but the pet name, or the gentle voice Robby had used—she wasn’t sure which—pulled her out of her daze.
“Is Dennis breathing?”
She could see his chest rising and falling.
“Yes, he’s breathing.”
“Perfect. Is he in a safe place in case he has another seizure?”
“He’s in his bed.”
She could hear noise on the other end of the line—the sounds of the emergency room in the background. Was she on speaker?
“All right. I want you to turn him on his side in case he throws up, and go get some icepacks wrapped in a towel to place under his armpits and on his groin area. Can you do that for me?”
Robby’s voice sounded so calm and controlled that Trinity felt the air gradually return to her own burning lungs.
“I’ll do that. I-I still didn’t call 911-”
“The paramedics are already on their way”, he gently interrupted. “Dana’s right next to me and took care of it. They’ll be here in 10 minutes at the very latest.”
There was a pause, during which Trinity’s heart had time to clench tightly in her chest at the sight of Dennis, his flushed skin, his limp limbs. She slowly, gently, roller him on his side. Her eyes suddenly stung, but she clenched her teeth and fists tightly. Her knuckles turned white around her phone. She staggered to her feet.
“I’ll go get the icepacks, I’ll be right back,” she finally said, her voice a little less shaky, a little more assured.
She didn’t know if it was meant for Dennis or Robby.
“Alright, Kiddo. We’re getting ready for your arrival. You know he’s in good hands. Call me back if there’s anything, okay?”
When he hung up, Trinity felt loneliness and panic wash over her again. She clenched her jaw and walked with determined, quick steps—glancing back at Dennis several times—all the way to the kitchen. As she began to put the icepacks on her best friend’s unconscious and soiled body, she could hear sirens in the distance.
* * *
Dennis slowly came to, his eyes still closed. Something wasn’t right. Something was very wrong. And suddenly he felt the cold—a cold that gripped him like a vise, that had seeped deep into his bones. In a reflex, he tried to move his outstretched, trembling arm, and a burning sensation in the crook of his elbow stopped him. What was happening? And he began to hear voices, violent noises all around him. He tried to speak, to scream, but only a whimper escaped his frozen lips. A sound louder than the others—noises he knew by heart, like the sound of machines, but higher-pitched—began to pierce his skull, screaming louder and louder, faster and faster. Hands were on him. Hands covered in plastic that seemed to rub with every movement, creating unbearable friction against his sensitive skin.
But suddenly a warm touch rested on his forehead. Skin against his own. For a fraction of a second, the warmth seemed to course through his body, spreading into his frozen insides. The other touches vanished. The noises became muffled. The touch was gentle. Just as he would have imagined a mother’s touch against a sick child’s forehead. Or rather, a father’s; the hand was larger, rougher. It couldn’t have been his father’s, though; his hands weren’t gentle.
They were hard, they struck, they hurt.
But then who did they belong to?
“Shhh, Dennis, everything’s fine. You’re not alone. I’m here.”
The voice that must have belonged to the hand was deep, gravelly, reassuring. It was just as full of warmth as the hand itself. It reminded him a little of his father’s voice, sometimes, when his father would say, “Have a good day, Den,” very early in the morning. Back when he was very little. Back then, before his dad had started taking off his belt when he was angry.
He wondered then if he was in a dream, where his father had turned into a gentle man, and that he would wake up in his bedroom in Broken Bow, before getting up to go to the village’s school with his brothers.
“I know you’re uncomfortable right now, but we have to bring your body temperature down,” and after a moment: “We wouldn’t want to fry that brilliant brain of yours now, would we?” There was a hint of amusement in the voice.
Dennis didn’t understand everything, and the hand had just begun to brush back the damp strands of hair plastered to his forehead. It felt like the nicest thing in the world.
“D-Dad?” whispered the boy.
Did his father finally love him? Had his hard work, his discretion, and the punishments he’d endured “like a real man” had finally paid off? Did he love him as a boy? As a son, like his brothers?
The gentle strokes against his forehead stopped abruptly and only silence answered him. Dennis had made a mistake. He had been a bad boy. Would this sweet dream come to an end? He didn’t want that. He wanted his father to start speaking to him with affection again.
“You’re okay, kiddo. Go back to sleep, mmh?”
A second passed. The hand resumed its gentle movement against his forehead. Then, a warm, hoars whisper: “Dad’s here, sweetheart. He’s not going anywhere.”
His father had never called him “sweetheart” before. It had always been “Denise.” Or “Den.” Sometimes “kid.” One day—just before he’d turned 10, when he’d put on his boys’ overalls to help carry the bales of hay—it had been “bud.”
“I’ll be here when you wake up, yeah? Sleep, kiddo—you’ll feel better soon. I promise.”
And Dennis felt weighed down by the warmth of the hand, of the voice, and he felt his consciousness slip away again, gently, gently.
* * *
Robby was about to knock on the door but stopped himself just before his knuckles touched the wood. He sighed deeply and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes tightly.
“Fucking hell,” he finally muttered through clenched teeth before running his hand through his hair, behind his neck.
He could still hear Dennis—that little voice that sounded more like a lost child than a 27-year-old. That soft, frightened voice that had whispered “Dad” to him.
His heart had shattered into tiny pieces, and damn it, it had taken every ounce of strength he had to pull himself together. He hoped he’d done the right thing by lying. By pretending to be his father—his suddenly loving father. He couldn’t have imagined saying anything else to that little boy who seemed to need so much gentleness.
Robby took a few deep breaths, trying to clear his mind, which was still filled with everything that had happened over the past few hours. Trinity’s panicked call. Her frantic, stammering voice. Robby’s blood had run cold at the mention of “Dennis,” followed by “seizures.”
Then the young man had arrived, his skin flushed, dripping with sweat. His face had been too relaxed, slacked. The thermometer had read 104.1
They’d followed protocol; his temperature was now around 100.5. He was out of danger. And now, Robby had to focus on someone else.
The man finally knocked quietly on the door and slowly entered the intensive care room where Dennis had been admitted.
A figure was sitting slumped beside him, cheek resting against the bedrail.
Robby gave a faint smile before gently placing a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, stroking it.
“You’ll be more comfortable in a real bed,” he whispered.
Trinity looked up, her eyes red, her hair disheveled. A mark left by the bedrail ran across her cheek.
“I’m staying here.”
Robby sighed before sitting down on the edge of the bed, near Dennis’s feet, facing her.
“I know you’re worried, but you need to go home and get some rest. You worked last night and got a shift tomorrow morning, kiddo.”
The young woman’s expression hardened.
“I’m not leaving him.”
A tender smile played on Robby’s lips as he continued to look at her with a gentle expression. He saw the exact moment when Trinity’s impassive face softened, when her eyes began to fill with tears.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
And suddenly he had her tear-stained face pressed against his chest and his own arms wrapped around Trinity’s trembling shoulders.
“I was so mad at him! He’s never home, and—and I wished something bad would happen…I’m the worse fucking friend. H-he walked right by me—I should have seen it! Seen that something was w-wrong. He works too much. And the farm—”
Robby was now tracing large circles on her back, his heart in his throat. He, too, should have done something. He and Jack had suspected that Dennis was working way too hard. That he wasn’t taking care of himself anymore.
“Shh, shh, shh, I know. I’m going to have a very long talk with him about all that. I’m the one who should have said something. And you saved his life, Trinity.”
Between two sniffles, a bitter chuckle escaped her mouth.
“Right. I totally didn’t panic like a pathetic little girl.”
“Trinity, no one reacts rationally when a family member is having a seizure. You took action, you called for help, and you saved him by doing that.”
There was a silence before the weight against his chest lifted and he caught sight of the young woman’s tear-streaked, puffy face.
"And you're a great friend, Trinity. You two are very lucky to have each other", he softly added.
He tucked a strand of hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear.
“Now you need some rest, hmm? I already called Jack before coming in. He should be here in a few minutes to take you to our place.”
Trinity sat up suddenly.
“What?!”
“He can also take you back to your apartment if you’d prefer, but ours is closer, and we figured it might be better if you weren’t alone tonight.”
Strangely, for once, Robby didn’t get any further protests. And sure enough, a few minutes later, Jack walked in, a backpack hanging from one of his shoulders.
“Hey,” he murmured, as if not to disturb the silence of the room, which was filled only by the steady beeps of the monitors attached to Dennis.
He set the bag — filled with a few items for the young man and a couple of books for his husband — down in the corner of the room before slowly approaching. Robby stood up, and they hugged.
For the first time in over five hours, he felt the weight in the pit of his chest lift, and his shoulders relax.
“Thank you, Yankel.”
“Anytime.”
Jack kissed him on the forehead before bending down to do the same for Dennis. He ruffled his hair gently.
Trinity then stood up, her legs a little wobbly, and squeezed her friend’s hand one last time.
“Ready to go, Trin?” Jack asked the young woman, placing a grounding hand on her shoulder.
Before stepping through the door, she turned around and sought out Robby’s eyes.
“Promise me you’ll let me know the minute he wakes up.”
“I promise. And you promise me you’ll get some food in you and then sleep.”
Jack gently guided her through the door, exchanged one last glance with his husband - I'll make sure she's okay, let me take over, focus on Dennis - and the two of them disappeared into the overly white hallway of the ICU.
The room was once again almost completely silent, plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the flickering lines on the monitors.
“Soon I'll have nothing but gray hair, and it will be on you, kid,” Robby murmured as he sat down in the chair next to the bed.
He took out his phone and wrote a quick email, letting admin know that he and Trinity would be unavailable for the next three days. Then he placed a hand on the young man’s forehead, just as he had done earlier. His skin was still a little warm, but it was dry and rosy.
Lost in his thoughts, Robby didn’t notice the large blue eyes, filled with confusion, slowly opening.
“Robby?”
His voice still sounded small, scared. The man immediately looked down, infinitely relieved.
“Hey, Den. Everything’s fine—you had heatstroke. You’re okay now, we’re in the ICU.”
The young man furrowed his brow, as if trying to piece together the events in his still-foggy mind.
His gaze was distant, a little lost. He looked at Robby as if he were the only thing that made any sense around him. He still seemed far too young, and Robby’s heart sank yet again.
“You can go back to sleep, alright? It’s late and you’re exhausted”, he gently whispered.
Then, with a little smile:
“Trinity will be here tomorrow morning. She’s fine, she’s resting. Well, I hope she is! I managed to get her out of here and she’s with Jack right now. She really didn’t want to leave your side, you know?”
So, Trinity was fine. And there was always that affectionate hand against his forehead—the one he vaguely remembered, a memory mingled with cold and panic, then warmth and comfort—Dr. Robby’s hand, he now realized. Dennis let his eyes close, the familiar gravelly voice of his mentor, of Robby, soothing him once more.
The older man thought he had fallen back asleep. But a broken, hurried whisper — just a single syllable, tinged with urgency — rose up in the room.
A syllable Robby knew, deep in his heart, was meant for him this time:
“Dad…”
The hand kept running through his hair, and when Robby replied softly, immediately, his heart full of love and affection: “You can rest, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere,” this time, there wasn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice.