Promises by JaneLebak
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Promises
By Jane Lebak, 4/99
Part One: And I Feel Fine

As the hotel room door clicked open and parted to shine a thin beam of light onto the four sleeping figures, one of them stirred. The person who slipped inside whispered, "It's me, go back to sleep," then returned the room to darkness. He crept to the bathroom.

When he finally flipped the switch, Jason's wan and drawn image squinted uneasily from the mirror, and he leaned close to look at his own eyes. His watch revealed the time: 2:30 AM. He stripped off his clothes and wristband and turned on the shower. With the hot water on full blast, Jason stood under the spray a few minutes, tilting his head under the jet so the water coursed through his hair and over his face. He massaged his temples and rubbed his eyes, grimacing a little. After a few minutes standing still, he gritted his teeth and set the shower as cold as he could. He gasped when the temperature changed, and then standing face-into the water, he started breathing easier, a little deeper and slower than only moments ago. He had no idea how long he stayed.

Eventually he shut the water, toweled, and dressed. Moving out into the dark hotel room, he found Princess' purse. Back in the bathroom, he rummaged until he found her Advil. Pouring four out into his hand, he took them all with one swallow.

To get into bed, he had to cross the entire room. The first bed was Keyop and Tiny's; Princess slept on the cot. Jason found Mark had left him enough room to stretch out, but getting into his own place disturbed Mark enough that he opened his eyes.

Jason settled down, keeping his back to Mark. After a moment, he curled like an egg, knees against his chest, hands up over his eyes. His breaths came unsteadily, deep and ragged as if he kept flinching while inhaling.

Behind him, Mark rolled over and whispered, "You okay?"

Jason kept his voice in a combat whisper. "Fine."

"Your hair's wet."

"Cigarette smoke."

Mark said nothing. Jason kept himself curled tight, head forward and hands over his eyes and temples. Mark stayed irritatingly aware at his back. It took a lot of effort to force himself to breathe normally.

After a minute, Mark turned so he and Jason were back to back, the way they would position themselves in a fight. If he concentrated, Jason could feel the presence behind him, only inches away, and momentarily he found himself unclenching, his hands coming away from his eyes, his breaths deepening normally. Without understanding how the magic worked, he finally fell asleep.

Five con-goers crowded into one hotel room didn't strike anyone as unusual. Even checking in, Mark and the others had overheard one hotel clerk muttering to another, "There are just so many of them...in every room!" The science fiction convention, with some appallingly SF name like GenghisCon or Wrath-of-Con, had taken place over an entire weekend in mid-May at the Philadelphia Courtside Marriott, a hotel all five subsequently vowed never to set foot in again. Not SF fans by nature, G-Force had attended for an assignment: the same hotel had hosted a Saturday convention for law enforcement agents, and Chief Anderson had thought it might pose too great a target for Spectra to resist. G-Force could attend the SF con as a cover for patrolling the hotel. If nothing happened before the enforcement convention ended, they could spend the rest of the weekend as they wished. Saturday night and Sunday morning they enjoyed as much of the convention as they could.

This unseasonably hot and humid Sunday afternoon, G-Force packed and checked out of the cramped room with its inadequate air conditioner, bristly blankets and creaky beds. While Mark paid the bill, Jason retrieved Sweetheart from parking and circled to the front. By the time Tiny and Keyop packed the trunk, Mark finished at the desk, and they piled into the car.

When Jason stopped for gas, Princess said, "That was a wasted weekend. After all we've done in the past two weeks--Venus, that whole fiasco with Don, that strike at Spectra--we had to go waste two days with a bunch of people who think more of old TV shows than their real lives."

"It was so much fun!" Jammed in the back between Princess and Tiny, Keyop giggled. "I loved going through the dealer's room! I bought four t-shirts! I even found Jason a birthday gift."

Mark blinked. "Oh, crud. That's next Monday, isn't it?"

Keyop blew him a raspberry. "Big two-zero. Now you're not the only one!"

Jason stuck his head into the car. "Anyone want a soda while I'm pumping?"

Startled, Mark said, "You're already pumping gas?" The engine was running.

Jason shrugged. "Keeping the air conditioner on. It's safe enough--you think I stop the engine when we pit? Anyone want a soda?"

Princess said, "Actually, if you could get my guitar out of the trunk--"

Jason reached over the steering column and yanked out the keys.

Mark watched him walking around back and opening the trunk. "We--we shouldn't be able to do this."

Tiny snorted. "Fuel up with the engine running?"

"Fuel up with the engine running and no key in the ignition."

Keyop and Tiny leaned forward to see better. "Yeah, how'd he do that?"

Jason tapped on Princess' window, and she opened the door so he could give her the guitar case. "We were wondering why the keys are in your hand still."

"You said you wanted your guitar. Had to open the trunk, Girl-Genius." He handed her the set as the pump thunked to a stop. "Be right back."

Mark took the keys from Princess and gingerly inserted the right one into the ignition. The engine kept running.

Tiny said, "You know he's just dying for us to ask."

Keyop snickered. "What say no one gives in?"

Mark said, "I kind of want to know how, though."

"He'll get so pissed if we don't even notice!" Keyop kept laughing and trying to keep a straight face simultaneously. "Promise, Mark--"

Jason got back into the car and popped the top on a Sprite. "We ready to go?"

Princess had just finished assembling her travel guitar, smaller than her acoustic guitar and with a collapsible neck so it fit into a backpack. She strummed a chord. "Ready! --ouch, not ready." She started tuning.

They pulled out onto the road. Jason kept looking at the three in the back through his rear view mirror, but he didn't break the silence until he put on the radio and strains of R.E.M., "The End of the World As We Know It," filled the car. After half a verse, Mark began singing, and Jason joined him in his own distinct off-key.

They had to drive a mile along the city streets before reaching the highway. Princess tried to strum with the song and failed, then kept the guitar on her lap with the neck across Keyop's legs. Tiny started talking about one of the movies they'd watched.

Jason saw a sign for the highway. "Prepare for the jump to light speed." Mark chuckled as they accelerated.

From between two parked cars a big yellow ball rolled into the street, and without even swearing Jason slammed on the clutch and the brake, throwing everyone forward. Tiny shouted, "Jason, what the hell!" Behind him, three cars hit their horns.

The car shrieked to a stop, and Mark lifted his head to see a seven year old girl in a red plaid dress standing two yards in front of the car, staring horrified.

Jason had his forehead against the steering wheel, his eyes closed and knuckles white.

"You can look," Mark whispered.

He lifted his head.

The ball rolled back against the girl's white shoes, and she picked it up, then ran to the sidewalk.

"Thank you, Sanders." Jason's voice cracked. "Whenever a ball rolls into the street, there's a kid right behind."

Jason put the car back into gear and moved toward the highway. No one spoke for a while.

Once they'd gotten up to speed, Mark turned the radio to a moderate volume, and Princess strummed with the songs with more success than before. Keyop calculated an approximate arrival time, Mark got out the map to schedule a break, and Jason regained some color in his cheeks.

The monotony of the highway felt normal by now. G-Force had fought Spectra for two years come June, and in that time they'd learned to travel well together. Silences could become as meaningful as conversations in cramped quarters like the car or the cockpit, and they'd learned ways of making the space for themselves they needed, physical and emotional alike.

An hour down the road, Jason had the radio on an oldies station while Tiny loudly recounted something he'd seen over the weekend. Jason hadn't spoken for the past half hour, and he wore a deep scowl as he squinted at the traffic. Keyop had a homework assignment on his lap, and periodically he sprinkled the older ones with questions.

They passed a sign for a rest area in five miles. Jason said, "I could use some food."

Mark said, "We're not scheduled to stop until the next one. That's in twenty-five--oh. Sorry." He'd just noticed Jason's look of raw disbelief. He offered a penitent smile, but Jason glared back at the road.

Keyop said, "How many teeth does the average person have?"

"Thirty-two." Mark said with a chuckle, "So is that caffeine addiction getting you down, Jason?"

Princess said, "Mark! He didn't even have coffee this morning!"

Jason's eyes flickered to the mirror. "You noticed?"

"It'd be like the Pope deciding to skip Mass and sleep in, yeah." She laughed in tune with her guitar. "Weren't you the one to call me the Girl-Genius? It comes with the territory."

Keyop said, "What's the hardest substance in the body?"

"Teeth, idiot." Tiny said, "Jason, did you get thrown off schedule because of roommate problems?"

Jason squinted. "Guys, don't. I'm not in the mood."

Keyop giggled as Tiny belted out, "I'm having roommate problems!"

Princess said, "Someday you've got to break down and tell us which of the Florida guys said it."

Tiny said, "Said nothing. Cassie said someone howled it out the window the first week."

Mark said, "Who howled it, Jason?"

Keyop said, "Hell with that--who was the poor bastard so lonely he moved himself into someone else's room? I still say it was you." As Jason shook his head, Keyop added, "How many bones are there in your body?"

Tiny burst out, "Eight."

Then Tiny added matter-of-factly, "I'm not very flexible."

Princess laughed out loud, and Keyop giggled. Mark said, "You'd move kinda like Gumby..."

"Lessee, neck, shoulders, hips..." Laughing loudly, Tiny tried a lurching motion in the back seat behind the driver. "That's already six right there...waist and jaw--that makes eight."

Jason said, "Will you shut the hell up already?"

Princess and Keyop stared. Mark said, "What was that for?"

"Nobody gives a crap about the whole stupid conversation, and he's just going on and on."

Tiny said, "I was not!"

"Are you still talking?"

Mark said, "Why are you always acting like a jerk?"

Jason kept his eyes riveted to the road. "I tried out for the role of Sanctimonious Prick, but that was already taken." He clenched his teeth, then in the silence added, "And I didn't feel like trying out for Loserboy."

Now nobody said anything. Jason passed a car and then pulled back into the right lane. The rest area had shown up at the top of the next hill, and Jason cut off another car when he pulled into the exit.

Everyone climbed out of the car engulfed in silence. As Mark slammed the door, Jason popped the hood and muttered, "I'll come in a minute."

Mark turned his back and went after the others.

In the lobby, Princess snagged him. "What's going on with him?"

"Heck if I know."

"Maybe you should talk to him?"

"Maybe I don't feel like saying a word to him right now."

Keyop staked out two tables at the food court before getting in line for lunch. Princess joined him reluctantly, followed shortly by Tiny. By the time they'd seated themselves, Mark and Jason had also gone through the line. A quick glance at Jason's tray left Princess confused--although he'd said he wanted lunch, he had the sparsest meal, just a small salad and drink, and he wasn't eating with any enthusiasm. She asked a couple of questions designed to get the conversation started, and after a few tries was rewarded by Tiny and Keyop's friendly verbal salvos over whether there was any real reason for daylight savings time. Mark joined momentarily. Shortly Jason disposed of the remainder of his lunch and walked to the lobby.

Tiny hissed, "Creep."

Princess turned to Mark, who looked calmer. "Any ideas?"

"Do you suppose he hit his head on the steering wheel?"

She shrugged. "I was looking at him when it happened. He might have whiplash tomorrow, but his head didn't get near it."

Keyop said, "Maybe he's just shook up."

Princess said, "I thought this morning he wasn't feeling well. He keeps stealing my Advil."

Tiny huffed. "Doesn't make it right."

"It doesn't." Mark sighed. "He's not driving right, either."

Princess said, "He did seem a little fast."

"Fast begins to describe it. He wasn't paying attention. Did you see he had his head propped on his arm propped on the door? I don't like it." Mark grimaced as he got to his feet. "Next time Jason talks about the glories of leading this team, keep in mind that one of the glories is having to talk to him when he's in one of these moods."

Mark found Jason at the concessions stand. Now that Princess had pointed it out, he saw Jason didn't look healthy. Apart from the scowl, he had an enervated pallor and shadowed eyes.

Coming alongside him in line, Mark said, "Give me your keys."

Jason's expression hardened, but other than that he didn't acknowledge Mark's presence.

"Give me the car keys."

"No way!" Jason squinted away from Mark. "What the hell for?"

"Because you're not feeling well."

"And?"

"Your driving is pretty erratic." Mark hesitated. "You got to bed late last night, you're strung out for one reason or another, and despite what you're saying, you're obviously not okay. Your reflexes are shot."

"They're still better than yours."

They'd moved up a place in the line. Mark said, "And if another little girl comes running into the street--think you can stop in time?"

Jason looked past the next person to the cash register.

"You want to hit a minivan, wreck your car, wreck their car, maybe kill someone's kids, maybe kill one of us? For what? Isn't the act of driving a promise to every other driver that you're in control of your own car? What are you out to prove?"

Jason fished the keys out of his pocket. "Whatever. If it makes you happier to drive, drive. Just shut up."

Mark took the keys proffered by a very sullen brother who refused to look away from the register as he advanced to the front. Curious, Mark looked at what Jason handed the cashier and found he had a small bottle of Advil and a package of crispy M&Ms.

Back in the lobby, Mark waited until one at a time he met up with Princess, Tiny and Keyop. Holding up the keys, he said, "Done."

Keyop whistled.

Jason arrived behind him. "Is this another convention, or are we leaving?"

They returned to the parking lot. As they went, Jason walked up to Tiny and handed him the M&Ms without a word. Then he planted himself in the rear driver's side and rolled his jacket against the window frame for a pillow.

Outside the car, Tiny looked at the M&Ms. "Am I supposed to take this as some sort of apology?"

"You'd better." Princess opened her door, then stepped closer to Tiny and murmured, "It's probably all you're going to get from him."

By the time Mark pulled onto the highway, Jason had his eyes closed and was breathing deeply. Princess strummed her guitar. Soon Keyop settled himself against Jason and closed his eyes.

Princess said softly, "Last night he said he was going to check the roof one more time. Do you think he found someone? Maybe had a fight and got hurt?"

Mark said, "Who knows?" He sounded weary.

Tiny said, "Don't you think he'd tell us something like that, though?"

Mark said, "Frankly, I don't trust him. I don't even trust he's asleep right now."

That stopped conversation dead.

An hour later, Mark eased Sweetheart into the space beside the Chief's and almost had her in position when she stalled. Sighing, he decided the parking job would suffice. "All right--everyone out."

Keyop had to be shaken awake, and Jason roused a little more slowly, blinking uneasily. They made their way into the Chief's office in silence.

Standing in front of his desk, Chief Anderson waited for the team to array themselves before him. Mark angled his body so Jason couldn't see his hands, and he signed to the Chief, "G-2 hurt."

Anderson started, then looked at Jason. The only one sitting, he had one hand at the side of his head and his eyes half-closed.

The Chief said, "Jason, are you all right?"

Jason shrugged. "I feel fine."

"You don't look fine. What's wrong?"

Jason only glowered at him and then at Mark.

The Chief crossed the room to look more closely. "Go into the examining room. I'll be there in a minute." As Jason went, he addressed Mark in a clear voice, "You had indicated you had nothing urgent to report?"

"Nothing at all. Spectra didn't have anyone there, as far as we can tell."

The Chief stepped closer to the four, who quickly formed a small circle. "What's going on?"

Mark said lowly, "I have no idea--suddenly he got snappish and irritating."

"We nearly hit a kid, but he stopped in time," Keyop said.

"That wasn't Jason's fault," Princess said. "Anyone else and she'd have been dead."

Tiny said, "He was okay last night."

Mark said, "He got in late."

"We went to the midnight showing of Highlander. That was a total blast--he had fun there."

Keyop giggled. "When they showed the trailer for Highlander II, he shouted 'There can be only one!'"

Tiny goggled. "That was him?"

The Chief said, "Enough. What do you think is wrong now?"

Keyop whispered, "Roommate problems!" and Tiny clapped a hand over his mouth to hide the snigger.

Mark said, "I was hoping you could figure it out. We're all at dead ends."

The Chief sighed. "Nothing is easy."

He opened the door to the exam room to find Jason sitting listlessly on the table. "Okay, strip to your underwear." After Jason pulled off his shirt, the Chief handed him a thermometer and got out the blood pressure cuff. Both results turned out in the high-normal range. There didn't seem to be any obvious injuries, and nowhere he touched seemed to hurt. When he checked Jason's pupils, though, Jason flinched at the light.

"Give me some help," the Chief said. "What's wrong?"

Jason said, "It's just a headache."

Curious, the Chief flashed the penlight over Jason's pupils again, and Jason winced.

"Pretty bad headache? How long have you had it?"

"Since maybe three."

"And do you know what caused it?"

Jason abruptly looked perky. "Caffeine withdrawal. I stopped it just to prove I can."

"Caffeine rebound will cause a headache, but not a horrible one." Chief Anderson probed the glands on Jason's neck. "Swallow." He hummed, then got out a stethoscope and listened to his heart and his breathing. "You're awfully tense."

Jason had a helpfulness in his eyes which the Chief ignored. "I'm probably coming down with a cold."

The Chief folded his arms. "Do you have any other cold symptoms?" When Jason shook his head, he asked, "Where's the headache located?"

Jason grinned. "In my head."

"What part of your head, wise guy?"

Jason traced an arc from his right eye over the top of his head and back down in front of his right ear.

"Is it a boring pain?"

"I'm not bored so far."

The Chief put away the stethoscope. "Your humor's intact, at least. Does anything make it worse or better?"

Jason thought a moment. "It got better when I took a nap in the car."

"You let someone else drive your car?"

Jason's eyes narrowed.

"I was also told you nearly hit a pedestrian--I'm frightfully glad you didn't." Jason's eyes looked haunted when the Chief met them again, but he maintained the defiant grin. "It's a little soon for whiplash, but it's not unthinkable."

Jason looked incredulous. "My neck didn't whip. They don't know what they're talking about."

The Chief said, "At any rate, you're right that it's probably nothing to be concerned about. If it's still around in the morning, let me know and we'll take a closer look at other causes. For now, maybe you just need to sleep. You're stressed and tired, and I know what goes on at those cons. You probably didn't eat reasonable meals or get anything approaching sufficient sleep either night."

Jason started to protest, then stopped.

"So even if you were heading to the trailer tonight, maybe you should stay here instead."

After a moment, Jason nodded. The Chief said, "Go to bed. I'll debrief the others without you, unless there's something you need to add."

"Pretty much the dumbest excuse for a mission we've had so far."

"Thanks." The Chief shook his head and exited to his office, where the others were sitting and talking. They looked up expectantly.

"Jason's going to try to sleep it off, whatever he's fighting. He seems in good enough spirits. It's probably nothing more than a head cold." The Chief shrugged. "Nothing important happened at all on this trip?"

Keyop chuckled. "Did Jason tell you about the Spectrans?"

The Chief stared. "That would have been important."

Keyop was laughing. "Two of the SF con-goers were dressed in the cheesiest Spectran uniforms I've ever seen--like they made them out of felt and glue and construction paper and duct tape, that kind? Only we wondered if maybe they weren't for real, so Jason goes up to one of them--he and Mark were both wearing the black pants and sports coats, right?--and slams one of them up against the wall and shouts Freeze--Men In Black! And Mark was totally embarrassed, but he went along with it, and he frisked them too, and they were all laughing, and Jason and Mark didn't find any guns or anything on them."

Mark shifted uneasily. "They wanted us to enter the costume thing with them, but I thought it too high-profile..."

Princess said, "Didn't stop you and Jason from hanging out with those guys to all hours Friday night."

Keyop had a high flush to his cheeks as he giggled, "I couldn't even go into my own room because he's always having sex in it!"

Chief Anderson raised his eyebrows tolerantly. Tiny started laughing. "Yeah, I forgot, that's the same Florida story as roommate problems!"

The Chief murmured, "I wonder if I can retroactively refuse permission..."

Princess said, "That was what the guys told the RA to get her to throw out the freeloader. When the RA asked, the accusers couldn't come up with anyone, so she made them recant."

Keyop lowered his voice. "So let me get this straight--you can't ever go into your room because every time you try, you walk in and find him having sex with no one?"

Mark said, "Why do you keep dragging up this story?"

"Tiny did it first," Keyop said. "I think it's funny. I still say it was Jason."

Jason came out of the examining room tucking his shirt into his pants. "You taking my name in vain while I'm on my death-bed, Keyop?"

Tiny said, "You can't go to sleep--it's your turn for trash duty."

Jason stared at him.

"Well, it is. You traded with me last time you stayed all night at the trailer."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Can someone else swap with me?"

Keyop said, "Not me--I've got kitchen duty."

Tiny said, "Fair is fair. You promised. I don't care about--"

Before it turned into a brawl, the Chief said, "Both of you! Enough is enough--Tiny, are you eighteen or eight? Just do the trash tonight. Jason, take whatever job would have been his tomorrow."

Tiny folded his arms. "Then you're cooking dinner."

Jason said "I'll try not to lace yours with strychnine," as he headed to the hallway.

Later that night, the door to Jason's room slipped open, and Jason raised his head to squint uneasily at the approaching figure. The Chief's voice came low. "Are you awake?"

"Barely."

"Don't get up. Here." The Chief sat on the edge of the bed and set a tall glass of water on Jason's nightstand. "I've been reading up on headaches. I'm not quite sure what you have, exactly, but dehydration can worsen migraines, so I brought you a glass of water."

Jason smiled ruefully. "Thanks. You think I have a migraine?"

"It happens to a lot of people, and it's not pleasant. The trouble is, some of your symptoms are contrary to migraines. There are other kinds of headaches, so I wanted to ask you a few questions."

Jason started to sit up. "Fire away."

"No, no, stay lying down. Roll over." As Jason turned onto his stomach, the Chief started rubbing his shoulders and neck. "You're really tense--that's probably making whatever it is much worse. Close your eyes and do the relaxation breathing."

Jason breathed deeply as the Chief worked the kinks from his shoulders. "That's helping."

"Is the pain still limited to one side of your head?"

"It's everywhere."

"Is it a dull, pressure-like pain in your scalp?"

"Not really."

"Sparkling flashes, blind spots?"

Jason seemed to think a moment. "No."

The Chief stopped massaging his shoulders.

"Keep going." Jason sounded sleepy. "You're making it better."

"Is it around your eyes?"

"Sometimes."

The Chief thought a moment. "Answer me honestly: do you smoke?"

Mumbling, Jason said, "Not since eighth grade. And once or twice in Florida."

The Chief said, "When was the last time you had any alcohol?"

By now he sounded half-asleep. "I like the way you assume I drink. I took NyQuil a couple of months ago."

"Tell me the truth. As your doctor."

"As my doctor, believe me when I'm telling you I don't ever have more than one beer when I'm out."

"Really?" The Chief sounded surprised. "Even at the track?"

"Nice to know you trust me. It'd be stupid if you needed the team and I couldn't drive to get to them. Or see straight to fire the bird missiles. It's part of the commitment." Jason stretched, then huddled down lower on the mattress. "The headache's almost gone. Thanks. What's your diagnosis?"

"I'm still stumped. It doesn't sound like a migraine, a cluster headache, or a muscle-tension headache. We've got some Actifed if you think it's sinuses. Wait, don't go to sleep. You still need to drink your water."

Jason murmured, "Should have drank it before you started doing this."

The Chief tousled his hair, then stood. "Get as much sleep as you can. Talk to me if it's still there in the morning." He went to the door, then stopped. "Jason, you know you could tell me if anything was wrong."

Jason lifted his head and tried to meet his eyes in the darkness. "I know. Thanks."

The Chief left. Jason took a sip of water, then set the glass back on his nightstand and returned to sleep.

Jason awoke a little after nine Monday morning, muscles stiff and head pounding as badly as the day before.

"Oh, no." He rolled to face the wall and took a few deep breaths. Rubbing his temples didn't help; looking at the light seeping around his window-shade caused his vision to blur. "Damn it. This can't be happening."

It had thunderstormed overnight, and the resulting temperature drop left Jason shivering under the blankets but also unwilling to leave the bed to shut the window. The glass of water, now lukewarm, sat on his nightstand. Jason drank it, then sat gingerly and made his way into the hall. A long shower, either boiling hot or freezing cold, helped only a little. He went into the kitchen, looked at the coffee maker, then remembered caffeine could only worsen the headache. It's not fair. After a moment, Jason told himself he'd slept enough not to need coffee. He made himself some toast he didn't feel like eating and forced half of it down with a cup of orange juice.

Tiny had left a note near the coffee maker: "Remember it's your turn to cook dinner, motor-boy."

Jason rummaged in the refrigerator until he found what he needed to make a beef stew, then pulled the crock pot from the cabinet. After the third time he'd gotten in trouble over skipping dinner prep, Cassie had suggested the new-mother technique. Using the crock pot and just about anything in the fridge, Jason now could cook dinner eight, nine or ten hours before it needed to be eaten, and the results kept the peace while he kept his job at the track. Two pounds of stew meat and a couple of packages of frozen vegetables went into the pot along with two cups of water, and Jason set about the only labor-intensive part of dinner: chopping an onion.

Midway through, Princess came into the kitchen and found Jason dealing with watery onion-eyes.

"Oh, so Tiny was wrong," she quipped, her ponytail swishing as she chuckled.

Jason turned. "Huh?"

"He said you wouldn't even cry for an onion."

"What? What a jerk." Jason chopped harder. "Tell him to bite me."

Princess grabbed an apple from the fridge and left the kitchen. Jason scooped the onion pieces into the pot, stirred it up, threw in some salt and some parsley, then turned it on. No one would hassle him for at least eight hours.

The headache throbbed, and Jason tried hard to focus past the blurriness hovering before his eyes like a pair of trick glasses. He had his job at the track today. He'd missed enough in the past two weeks that he couldn't in good conscience beg off for a headache, although the idea tempted him. In his room, he grabbed his jacket, then hesitated. Behind it in the closet hung an older denim jacket, the one he'd abandoned last year when it started to get tattered. The Chief had given it to him when he was sixteen. Feeling awkward, Jason set aside the newer jacket and lifted the worn denim, fingering the ripped cuffs momentarily before slipping it over his shoulders.

With his eyes so unreliable, he couldn't trust himself to drive: two near misses in less than a week couldn't be ignored, and his life would have ended on the spot if he'd killed either Aunt Mary or that little girl. He still could see the girl clearly if he closed his eyes. For some reason, despite the blurs all around him, despite the fact that even his mental image of Mark blurred out, she kept showing in sharp focus.

He found Mark in the TV room and tossed him the spare car keys. Mark looked up from the news with a puzzled stare. "I'm heading to the track. Can you put the G-2 in the Phoenix for me?" Jason hunched his shoulders and bit his lip.

Mark shrugged and stuffed the keys into his pockets.

Jason hesitated, then said, "Don't forget, okay?"

When he headed down the hallway, he paused before the elevators, then continued walking until he reached the Chief's office. He said I could tell him anything. Maybe I should try. A knock at the door brought a slow response, and he stepped inside haltingly.

The Chief simultaneously worked on two computers while checking a stack of reports. Jason stood for half a minute running through every possible scenario for this conversation. What if he said, This isn't just a headache--it's the worst headache I've ever had in my life, and it just won't stay away. He finally decided he'd start with something neutral, the status of dinner.

Momentarily the Chief looked at him. "What can I do for you? How are you doing?"

"Uh, okay, dinner's in the crock pot. I'm not sure I'll be home to eat tonight."

The Chief nodded, checking on one of the computers that was spitting out numbers while its hard drive spun. "If you show up, you show up. When you're cooking for five, you're really cooking for six anyway."

Jason burrowed his hands in his pockets. "I guess." He swallowed tightly, watching as the Chief checked a number on the computer against one of the numbers on the report. After he'd stood a moment more, the Chief looked back at him.

"Anything else?"

"No, no." Jason stepped backward. "Well, goodbye."

Back in the hallway, Jason gritted his teeth and headed for the elevators, worn denim jacket unbuttoned and his high school backpack slung over one shoulder with his walkman, a couple of tapes, and some necessities to keep at the trailer. The walk to the subway was so routine he hardly noticed his progress. Once on the train, he took a seat and browsed his copy of Stock Car Racing with more effort than it should have taken, his eyes uncertain at best and the train engaging in its regular jolting motion.

This is nuts. Jason closed the magazine. His head hurt worse, something he hadn't believed possible. Maybe it was the noise, or maybe the assorted subway smells. He doubted the subway car rhythm aggravated it, a gentle New York click-clack and side to side rocking he hardly noticed but rather melted into--but maybe that did it too. All the while, he felt his pulse getting harder, his breath shorter. His hands began to go numb.

No, not again, please not again. Eyes closed, Jason arched his neck all the way backward with a tremulous moan, then bit his lip and gasped. Why does this keep happening to me?

No one appeared to notice, but everyone in the car watched with New Yorker stealth. Jason wrapped his arms around his stomach and tried to breathe deeply, but even that effort left him trembling. This isn't any good. I'm going to die in this subway car and everyone's going to be late and they'll be pissed. He forced open his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The conductor announced the station. The track would be three stops from now. At the next, he'd be two blocks from New York Flushing Hospital.

When the train stopped, Jason lifted his backpack and exited the train, then keeping his head down made his way to the dazzling sunlight of the street. The roar of the cars and the smell of exhaust left him nauseated and trembling, and it took a minute to get his bearings. Ten minutes later, he stood at the emergency room desk feeling desperate and dumb as he tried to check himself in for the worst headache of his life.

The nurse at the desk handed him a stack of forms and asked him to take a seat.

Jason looked at the top page with its tiny type and small boxes. His hands quivered, and he said softly, "I need someone to help me. I can't see well enough."

Huffing, the nurse got on the phone briefly, then told him to wait at one of the desks until someone was free.

Jason checked his watch, and as best he could determine, it was nearly noon. He wasn't hungry.

There's still a chance this is a cold. It's late for flu season, but after all the places we've been, who knows what germs we pick up? And my room was so cold last night. That could do it. The smudges on the form refused to solidify into words and instructions. Jason knew the first boxes must be for his name, Last First and Middle, but try as he might he couldn't coax the lines into order.

A grey-haired woman with a pink hospital coat sat beside him. "I'm Beth, one of the volunteers. I understand you need help with the forms?"

Jason nodded. "I can't see enough--"

"You don't need to explain." The plump woman smiled kindly. "Just answer the questions for me, and I'll write it down. All we'll need is your signature at the bottom. You might want to give me your insurance card first."

Jason fumbled for his wallet and pulled out the health care card the track had issued. It covered little more than crash-related emergency care and the required medical checkups to race professionally, but the ISO didn't have an external health plan as such. His health plan was his ID card and whatever referrals Chief Anderson issued. He gave his name even though it was on the card, then flinched. The woman stopped. "Are you all right?"

"No," he whispered, both hands pressing his eyes. "I can't--"

The sounds of the waiting area vanished into an indistinct buzzing, and Jason lost contact with his sense of touch as even his lips went numb. The pressure in his head only grew, and when he came to himself, he found he'd been maneuvered so his head was between his knees. Someone called for a stretcher.

Moments later, Jason came to again as a nurse said, "Congratulations. You figured out how to upgrade yourself from urgent care to emergency care."

The nurses recorded his vital signs, and Jason willed himself to concentrate. He couldn't follow what they said. He didn't notice the prick of a needle or when they drew blood.

After a few minutes, he realized he was alone in an examining room, and in the silence he managed to do the breathing enough to calm the throbbing in his head. Gingerly, he looked at the locked cabinets, the stainless steel sink, the bare walls and tile ceiling. In the quiet, lying on the hard padding, he felt himself starting to drift twice. He was just about to wonder where the doctor was when she entered the room.

"Jason Anderson." A dark-haired and dark-eyed doctor not yet in her thirties, she smiled without traces of the burn-out he'd seen on everyone else so far. She pulled a pen from her white coat and made a note on his chart, then set both on the countertop and shook his hand. "I'm Dr. Mary Woo. I hear you've been having headaches and passing out on our volunteers?"

Jason chuckled. "It's a hobby of mine."

"Handily, my hobby is checking why seemingly healthy young men do that sort of thing. Look up." She looked in his ears, flashed a light over his eyes and noted the accompanying wince, looked in his throat, probed the glands on his neck, then asked questions. No, no nausea, no blind spots, no pain only on one side of the head, no numbness at the moment, unfortunately, except his hands. She asked if the headache was constant or fluctuating. She folded her arms and asked about alcohol, cigarettes and recreational drugs. Then she said, "Are you having a feeling of urgency, like you can't sit still?"

Jason thought. "Sometimes."

"That's a symptom of concussion." Dr. Woo probed his skull. "There's no deformity, but I think we ought to run you through a CT scan. Wow--" She had just found the scar over his right ear. "What's this beauty from?"

"Early male-pattern baldness?" Jason flashed a smile as she laughed. "Something stupid I did with a gun when I was fifteen."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Have you been depressed recently?"

Jason said, "I haven't had the time to be depressed for about a year and a half now. I feel fine."

"That's good, at least." The doctor kept probing his skull. "Have you had any blows to the head?"

In the past two weeks, Jason had gotten whipped by Zoltar while chained to a wall in a volcano on Venus, had slammed his head into the steering wheel nearly killing Aunt Mary with his car, and had gotten flung from the whirlwind pyramid twice on Spectra. He honestly admitted that yes, he had. The doctor nodded knowingly with her fingertips resting lightly on his forehead. "I think I just found the bump. At what speed?"

Jason had no idea how fast he spun out of the whirlwind pyramid, so he guessed twenty miles an hour, about how fast he must have been going when he ran the car off the road in Prospect Park.

"Motorcycle or car?" The doctor pursed her lips. "I want to know if you were wearing a helmet."

Jason hesitated. Once he had, and once he hadn't. "Helmet."

"Have you replaced it since? You have to replace a helmet after an accident."

Since the Chief didn't know about the whirlwind pyramid, he probably hadn't replaced the helmet. Jason's eyes widened. "I didn't realize."

Dr. Woo pointed at him. "Do it. Before you ride anywhere again. You've probably got the aftereffects of a concussion going on in that skull of yours. I'll get you cleared with the scanner people and take some pictures. By the way, is the Demerol working?"

Jason blinked. "Demerol?"

"The nurses gave you a low-dose shot of painkiller when they admitted you. You weren't told?"

He shrugged. "They might have said something..."

"As long as you're not in pain any longer. You gave Beth a pretty good shock when you keeled over. She figured you needed help with the forms because you were illiterate. Don't look like that--it happens a lot. That tragically tattered jacket doesn't help." The doctor grinned. "I'll be back."

The doctor didn't return. Jason could tell from the talk outside his door that two gunshot wounds had just come in, and most of the staff were involved in keeping the men from bleeding to death. He found that if he sat up suddenly, he got dizzy, and he remembered that as a side effect Demerol always had on him. Within half an hour, two nurses wheeled him in a chair to a room where the techs put him in a scanner. Jason dozed during the scan. He awoke when they returned him from the tube to the emergency room.

Checking his watch, Jason found it was close to three o'clock. Cassie would be wondering where he was by now, but that couldn't be helped. Hopefully she hadn't dialed around looking for him. He probably ought to find a phone and call her, at least. With a concussion, he shouldn't be heading toward the track. He probably would be told to return home and sleep, not do too much reading or anything that might strain his eyes, and not drive for a few days. He'd get a whole vial of Demerol and take those instead of Advil by the handful, he'd sleep ten hours a night and watch TV during the day, and in a week or less he'd be back in shape to head about his normal life. It made sense now. Head injuries were nothing new. He'd had enough that he could have practically told the doctor about them. He should have thought of it on his own.

The door opened, and an male doctor in his sixties stepped inside. "Jason Anderson?" he said gruffly. "I'm Dr. Colvan, a surgeon. I looked over your scans, and you have a cerebral aneurysm."

Jason didn't hear a word the doctor said after that.

When the doctor stopped talking a few minutes later, he waited for Jason to say something.

"I'm sorry." Jason's voice emerged very small. "I didn't follow everything. What do you want to do again?"

The doctor huffed, exasperated. "Surgery. We have to go in and put a clip across the neck of the aneurysm."

"But--" Jason shook his head. "I don't understand."

The doctor folded his arms. "Again. Your brain has four main arteries feeding it. One of the arteries has a weakness in the wall, and it's ballooned out like an egg. Aneurysms like that rupture and cause a subarachnoidal hemorrhage, spraying blood into the brain, causing ischemia, hematoma, seizures, vomiting, and shortly afterward death. What you're feeling is pressure from that ballooning and blood from the artery. There's also a hematoma, a blood clot on the brain, that we're going to have to remove surgically at the same time we clip the aneurysm."

Jason's eyes had flared. "Blood clot? Surgery?"

"Immediately. You don't have any choice."

"What?"

The doctor said, "I'm having the nurses admit you now. We can squeeze you in by six o'clock."

Jason took a deep breath. "You're going to drill a hole in my skull?"

The doctor nodded.

"What's the recovery period like? What are the side effects?"

"You'll recover in about six months."

"Six months?" Jason sat upright. "I can't take six months!"

The surgeon looked down his nose at Jason. "You'll recover from surgery a lot faster than you will from being dead. And with something like this, you can go at any time."

Jason's heart was pounding. He swallowed hard. "What's the success rate?"

"Prior to hemorrhage, about seventy percent."

Jason whispered, "And...afterward?"

"Twenty-five percent."

His hands were cold and numb, and he clenched them. Blood from the artery. The terms danced around his skull like a maddening wind, and a low whine began in his ears. Hemorrhage. "What about the long-term effects?"

"Like you'd expect after a stroke." The doctor had a tight look in his eyes, as if a teenager shouldn't dare question him. "You'll need plenty of physical therapy, but you're young and basically healthy, so it won't take as long for you, and you can maybe expect something near full recovery afterward."

Assuming he didn't die on the table, that was. Jason kept hearing, twenty-five percent. One chance in four that he might survive at all.

Now that he had something to imagine, the image of an egg-shaped bulge in an artery made so much sense. He could almost sense the blood swirling forth every time his heart beat, sixty times a minute.

Jason said, "Let me think about this a few minutes."

"There's nothing to think about," the doctor said. "You'll be admitted shortly, and we'll go from there."

As the doctor closed the door, Jason said, "Like hell we will."

Jason had been driving for months on a transmission both he and Cassie knew could go at any time. So maybe he had a week or ten days. Better that than signing his life over to a doctor who thought he had a one in four chance of surviving the procedure that was supposed to save him. But there was already blood. Maybe if he'd gotten to this point earlier, maybe if he'd had that seventy percent chance he'd have submitted. But six months--and even then, finding himself partially paralyzed or brain damaged or unable to care for himself? No, that couldn't be right. That couldn't be all there was in his future. Where did this surgeon get off, anyhow, admitting him without any kind of consent, telling him he had no choice in the matter? Of course he had a choice. There was always one choice left over in the end.

Jason rang for the nurse, and when she arrived, he set aside his pride and made himself look young and wide-eyed. "It hurts even worse--whatever you gave me before, can I have more?"

With this kind of acting, he'd never hit Broadway, but the nurse patted his hand and returned in a minute with a syringe. One injection later, Jason waited for her to leave, then eased off the bed, collected his backpack, and walked out of the hospital. No one stopped him. No one even noticed.

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