Page 13 of Reformation

The beeps, they are close. Right over my shoulder, if I had to guess. I could look, but I can’t muster the energy to open my eyes.

Why does everything hurt? Why can’t I wake up?

“Garrett?”

Mom? What is she doing here?

“Garrett… sweetie… can you open your eyes?”

I try. God, do I try. I might be a bastard in most aspects of my life, but when it comes to the commands of Julie Dixon, I do all I can to be a good son.

Opening my eyes shouldn’t be this hard of a request. I just… can’t.

I try a few more times to no avail. It’s no use. Before I know it, the beeps that stirred me awake just seconds ago start to fade into the distance.

* * *

“He’s been out since the surgery.”

“Is that… OK? Mom, is he OK?”

I can hear everything Mom and Mark are saying despite the beeping that once again pulled me into a state of semi-consciousness, but it sounds like they are a million miles away.

“The doctors aren’t worried. At least, not yet. His body has been through quite the trauma in the past forty-eight hours. They say the sleep will do him good.”

I let my mom and Mark’s words process as I do my best to get my bearings. I vaguely remember hearing Mom’s voice before. I have no clue how long ago that was. Apparently, I’ve been asleep for two days?

How did I get here?

“Thank God Trevor was with him,” Mark says, a worried tone to his voice. “I can’t imagine how long he would have been on that beach had he not been there.”

And just like that, it all comes back to me.

The beach.

Running with Trevor.

The pain. Fuck, there was so much pain.

And then darkness.

“I—”

I mean to ask for more, to ask more questions, but the single letter is all I can get out. I slowly open my eyes and am immediately blinded by the light in the hospital room. By the time I open them again, Mark and my mom are perched at either side of my bed.

“Oh, sweetie,” my mom begins, grasping my hand in hers. “You scared the ever loving hell out of me. And if I wasn’t so happy that you were alive, I’d whip your ass for scaring me like that.”

Leave it to my mom for the warm and comforting words.

“Water.”

My request comes out strained, but before I know it, I feel the plastic straw at my lips. The cool liquid tastes like heaven against my parched throat.

Before I can ask the thousand questions that are forming in my mind, a man I vaguely recognize comes into my room, iPad in hand.

“I see our patient is awake? How are you feeling, Dr. Dixon?”

“Dog shit.” No sense in pulling punches, even if I can only speak a few words at a time.

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