Starts with a Match

Not the Same

"You're not gonna walk like you used to."

I haven't opened my eyes since thirty minutes ago, when I first woke up and remembered Elijah is dead.

Doctor's still talking at me. I've got my head leaning back in the pillows, eyes closed. Elijah's dead.

It's like. I knew that already. Knew he was dead when I hit the ground with his weight on me. When I ran, when Hannah saved me, when I shot Stone in the face and we smelled green base burning for three miles until I passed out.

Woke up and. Yeah. Still dead. Like Margie. Almost joined them, too, pretty sure.

Doctor's still talking at me. About my burns and back and legs.

"We did what we could. We had you in a medically induced coma for three weeks to work on your muscle tissue in your shoulders and your legs. Your neck got the least of it, but it made it to past your collar. Backs of your thighs were bad, but it didn't make it below your knees. Your spine was..." he clears his throat, and finally I look at him. He fidgets his hands. He's like two years older than me, maybe three. "Your lower spine was exposed for a long period of time. Endured too much—"

"Just tell me what I can do," I sigh, blinking so slow my eyes roll back. Didn't know about the spine. Didn't notice. That's so fucked up. I shouldn't be alive.

"You'll be able to jog. Do light exercising, deadlifts, squats, rebuild the muscle. But you're not gonna do any of that for another few months, Kevin. Most you can do in the gym until at least July is walking, on a very low incline. Maybe yoga, beginner level, short periods of time..." He swallows and stops looking at his wringing hands, staring at me as he sits back in his seat. "They're sending you home."

My throat burns. I want to reach for water but my arm won't raise higher than two inches. He takes it for me and holds the straw to my chapped lips. "When?" I ask with a cough.

"You'll be back in the states by May," he answers.

"Where am I now? Doesn't smell like Russia." He scowls at my statement and I find the strength to roll my eyes. Now's not the time to explain how being in the field has fucked up my sense of smell. Let alone getting my nose broken. "Forget it. Where am I?"

"You're in Germany," he nods.

"Great."

"Is there anyone I can call for you?"

My brow knits. "Call?" I mumble, the idea of a phone incredibly foreign at this point. He nods and stands.

"Call—or email. You've got a few letters here for you, I figured one or all of these people would want to hear that you're okay."

"You said three weeks—what day is it?" I ask, taking the letters. My stomach tightens. One from Claire, one from Alex. Two from Toby. Never had so much mail to look through before.

"It's April third," Doctor says, walking toward the door. He pauses and hangs his head, looks back at me. "I'm sorry about your friend."

Who? Oh.

Right. "Thanks...can I get a phone? Or...or a computer or something?"

"I'll get you a phone," he replies, leaving the room.

I rip open Alex's letter first. Short, sweet. He does write like me.

He asks if I'm okay, how's Toby. He tells me about his soccer, his art classes, that he's getting lots of girls numbers cause he's good at drawing them. He asks if I might be allowed to come home for two days for Christmas this year. So does Claire in her letter.

I bet they wrote them together, at the kitchen table, teasing each other for their spelling.

Toby's letter from February 1st is long. They talk about it being our friend-aversary, that we've written for over a year now. They wish me a good day, they hope I have a good Valentine's Day, say they want someone to be there to give me a gift. Toby says if they were here, they'd give me flowers, pink and white ones, like the bouquet I caught at my sister's wedding cause I was the witness, best man and maid of honor. They saw it in a photo on her mantle. Toby says, if I was okay with it, they'd like to give me a hug. They think I could use one.

They wish to see me somehow. They know I've got another year to go but they say maybe another photo of me would be enough. Maybe one with me and Elijah, or my other friends. Anything, they say, they'll settle for anything. My eyes sting and it makes my bruised nose throb.

The second letter has me crying into my pillow.

I'm alive, I sob, so hard that nurses have to come in and hold me down before I rip my IV out like in the movies and race for the closest exit.

I'm alive, I'm alive Toby, I'm somehow alive. Please hear me.

—

Day passes and I calm down, I guess. Or I go numb enough from everything aching and from the constant throwing up and eating Jell-o that I just stop caring. No, that's not true.

Hannah visits. She says she mailed Eli's tags to his dad already along with a note. I'm glad she hadn't waited on me; I wouldn't have been able to write it. She brings me the black cat Beanie Baby, and Toby's old shirt. Thank God the day we lost Elijah was laundry day and I didn't have it. Thank God Elijah was stupid enough to get spaghetti sauce on me at dinner the night before. Thank God for Elijah.

Doctor gets me a phone. Jim swings by, hand in a cast, no idea what happened there. But using all his connections that nearly got us both killed, he finds out Toby's email through people in the states, in the volunteer program.

By the end of the day, I've got a way to talk to Toby instantly.

And I can't bring myself to do it.