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Dylan's morning cup of juice had tasted weird. Weirder than normal, at least. Like pennies.
Hours later, he could still taste it.
He swallowed, and tried to focus on the television. But he couldn't, because he was distracted by a hand. A hand that was on the end of his arm, so logically it must have been his, but it was doing something he hadn't asked it to do, tapping against the wall beside his bed, fast, faster.
Dylan watched with mild interest as his whole arm jerked, elbow locking, fingers clawing at nothing, a tremor climbing up across his shoulder and into his neck. Tap, tap, tap. He tried to tell the hand to stop.
It didn't.
Slowly, the walls of his room slid into each other, and all of a sudden the room was a long way down a corridor with him at the wrong end.
"...shit, is he..."
A voice crackled through the little speaker above the door. It was echoing and warbling, rolling around Dylan's head like a loose pinball. It made him dizzy.
On the television, Meg and Topher were talking about pyramids. Dylan knew that because he'd seen the episode before, he could probably recite their lines by heart, but he couldn't hear them now. The sound had gone thick and distant, replaced by a high, thin ringing.
"...won't be happy. He had training planned for..."
Something warm was running down Dylan's chin, and the pennies were back, so many pennies, a whole fistful of them in his mouth.
Gross.
His body arched without permission, and he wasn't able to stop himself from falling. He hit the floor hard, the impact rattling up through his teeth. His limbs went rigid. His jaw clenched as spit and blood foamed at the corner of his mouth and pooled under his cheek.
Was anyone coming to help him?
He tried to turn his head, but he couldn't. He saw the chair by his bed. Empty.
"...rate's high, but Darling says we don't call medical unless..."
Time folded, and suddenly Dylan was on the floor of the same room, a long time ago, and Darling was sitting cross-legged beside him with his tie loosened, a smile on his face, saying buddy, saying once you get the hang of it, saying, ice cream, and Dylan was eleven, and he had wanted to get the hang of it so badly it hurt.
He'd never earned that promised ice cream.
The seizure slowly broke, leaving him limp and twitching on the cold floor. The copper taste had flooded everything.
Above the door the speaker clicked once more.
"...post-ictal. Give it thirty and see if he's coherent enough. We can still salvage the training window if..."
Dylan lay there tasting pennies, watching the empty chair, and tried not to think about how hard he wished Jesse was sitting in it - how she would have held his hand, or wiped his face, or at least been worried for him.
The chair stayed empty.