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“This is all just a big misunderstanding,” Stanley said, hands raised defensively as he was backed into the alley corner. “C’mon, you know I’d never—”
One of the men grabbed his arm roughly, and a dozen or so cards slipped from Stan’s sleeve.
“—cheat.”
The man who’d grabbed his arm—what was his name? Joe, Jim, something with a J—scoffed. “Just how dumb do you think we are, Pinington?”
“...I don’t know how to answer that.”
A fist lodged in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could catch his breath he was struck in the face, then slammed into the wall. Sparks flew in front of his eyes as he heard the familiar crunch of his nose breaking. Great, he thought, like it’s not already big enough.
After a few more blows to the face, Stan was thrown to the ground. He rolled onto his hands and knees, wheezing. A sharp kick caught him in the ribs, and he let out an involuntary cry of pain.
“Jack, lay off ‘im, will ya?” one of the other guys said. “The rest of us wanna turn.”
Stan groaned. “Jack,” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s what it was. Knew it started with a J.” He shakily stood, spitting blood onto the asphalt. “Listen, fellas, I’m sure we can work something out. Just—here, you want the money? You can have it.” He emptied his pockets of his winnings. “There, see? All there. Let’s call it even, huh?”
The men looked at each other. Willie, Ben, Frank—jeez, he could remember everyone else’s names just fine. Some poker buddies they turned out to be. They stepped forward slowly, spreading out slightly so that they completely closed him in.
“Or,” Ben said, “we can kill you and take the money ourselves.”
“He’s got a nice suit, too,” Willie added. “Real expensive-lookin’.”
“Yeah ‘cept Jack had to go bloody it up.”
“Eh, it’s red, ain’t it? You can barely—”
Willie was cut off as a set of brass knuckles met the underside of his jaw. He reeled back, the force of the blow knocking him flat on his butt. Everyone turned to Stan. He just grimaced and clenched his fists tighter.
“Anyone else want a piece?”
It was four on one (closer to three, seeing as Willie was still pretty dazed); hardly a fair fight.
But then, stacked odds were Stanley’s comfort zone.
“Gotta hand it to the old man,” Stan muttered as he swung a left hook at Jack’s face and ducked to avoid Frank’s switchblade. “Those boxing lessons weren’t such a bad idea.” He jumped back and grabbed Jack by the shoulder, shoving him head-first into the alley wall. He crumpled to the ground with a moan.
Willie took advantage of Stan’s momentary distraction and landed a punch, hitting his already-broken nose. Stan swore and retaliated with a few punches of his own, sending Willie to the ground as well.
“Hey, Steve,” Ben called, coming closer with fists held at the ready. Stan turned to him with a snarl, flexing his hands and readying his trusty knuckle dusters—
—his eyes widened.
He blinked, slowly.
And Frank pulled the knife from his neck.
Stanley fell to his knees.
Jack was panting, bracing himself on the wall as he struggled to his feet. Ben slung Willie’s arm around his shoulder and helped him up, then began gathering Stan’s winnings from the ground. Frank wiped his switchblade on Stan’s suit, frowning. After a moment, Frank kicked him in the chest and he fell onto his back with a dull thud.
“What’re we gonna do with him?”
“Let’s get outta here.”
“We got the money, let’s just go!”
Stan was only dimly aware of the voices growing steadily farther away. He just laid on his back, staring up at the small strip of night sky visible from the alley. He lifted a shaking hand to the side of his neck, and it came away slick with blood.
He realized his knuckle dusters were gone. He didn’t remember them being taken.
Slowly he sat up, hissing with pain. He couldn’t get enough air—it felt like he was choking on something. Blood soaked the collar of his shirt, and Stan groaned. It was brand new, too.
Well, the good news was, he didn’t think any major veins or arteries had been severed. Otherwise, he’d probably be dead already. And while he was certainly bleeding a lot, it wasn’t really spurting. So, silver linings.
On the other hand, bleeding out was still a definite possibility. And judging by the strange whistling sound when he breathed ( Moses , it hurt to breathe), he had just gotten a free windpipe piercing.
He tore off a strip of his suit and wrapped it around his hand, then pressed it to his throat. He took a moment to steady himself, and then, with a wince, he poked a finger into the wound to plug the hole in his trachea.
He gritted his teeth and bit down a yell. It hurt . And it felt...weird. But despite the pain, he could breathe a little better.
So...now what?
Stan noticed some spare change on the ground that his “friends” had left behind. He grabbed it with his free hand, counting—just two quarters and a dime. Well, it would be enough for a phone call, at least. He shakily got to his feet and staggered out of the alley.
There weren’t many people out and about, and it was dark enough that no one seemed to spare him a second glance. Not that anyone would, anyway, he thought grimly. Worthless hack like you, beaten black and blue and wearing stolen clothes. Just another no-good scumbag clogging up the streets. Why should anyone care?
He coughed, and tasted iron bubbling in his throat. Crap. He needed a payphone, now.
He finally found one about a block away, glinting pleasantly under a streetlamp. He stepped inside and fumbled with the change, hands trembling as he inserted a quarter. The fact that the coins were slippery with blood only made it more difficult. He went to put in the other quarter as well, but it fell from his fingers and rolled somewhere he couldn’t see. He cursed and slammed his hand against the glass. Crap, crap, crap.
No. No, it was alright. Five minutes was better than nothing. Five minutes was all he needed.
He hesitated. And it was stupid, because he knew the clock was ticking here and time wasn’t something he had a lot of right now. But he still froze, hand wavering indecisively above the number pad.
And then, because there was only ever one person he was going to call, he dialed Ford’s number.
Stanford had just begun to drift off at his desk when the phone rang, startling him awake.
He blinked rapidly, eyes darting around for a moment before remembering where he was. He rubbed his temple and sighed.
“Fiddleford, could you get that?”
His roommate’s only response was a loud snore.
Ford squinted at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Who could be calling at this hour? Hopefully it wasn’t another one of those prank calls. He hadn’t gotten as many in the last few years, but when he was a freshman, someone had taken great pleasure in calling on a near-monthly basis, only to hang up as soon as he answered.
The phone rang again, and with a frustrated grumble, Ford picked it up.
“Listen,” he snapped, “I don’t know who this is, but if this is some kind of joke, I don’t appreciate it.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. Ford was about to hang up when a familiar voice said, “Jeez, do you always answer the phone like that?”
Ford’s stomach dropped, and his fingers clenched around the phone. The voice was a bit deeper, perhaps, and considerably more gravelly than he remembered, but unmistakably…
“Stanley?”
“Heya, Sixer. What’s hangin’?”
Ford gritted his teeth as he gathered his composure. “What do you want, Stanley?” he asked coldly.
“I, uh, well…” Stan stammered, seemingly caught off guard, and Ford couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at calling out his brother’s true intentions.
“I...I guess I just wanted to talk. See how you were doin’.”
Ford’s brow furrowed. That certainly hadn’t been what he was expecting. Four years of no contact, and Stanley broke it for the chance at some idle chit-chat?
“I have nothing to say to you,” he said.
He was just about to hang up when Stan said, “WAIT!”
There was a note of pleading desperation in his voice that caught Ford’s attention, and his finger paused just above the “end call” button. He raised an eyebrow.
“Just...wait. Please.”
Ford’s hand dropped to the table. Stan never said please.
What was going on?
“Ford, I just gotta tell you somethin’ and then you’ll never hafta hear from me again.”
Ford remained silent. Stan took a shaky, raspy inhale before continuing.
“I’m sorry.”
Something was definitely wrong. “Stan, are you drunk?”
“No, I swear I’m not! I just...Ford, you were gonna leave me. And I...I got scared. Because everyone knew you were goin’ places, and I...wasn’t.”
“One of your sons is extremely gifted. The other one is standing outside this room and his name is Stanley.”
“But I never meant to break your project. I went to the school to blow off some steam, and...I was messing around, bein’ an idiot and yellin’ at the damn thing, and I...all I did was hit the table.” Stan coughed, and Ford flinched. He was almost sure he heard something spatter against the receiver. “I just hit the table, and a tiny little plate thingy popped off the side. So I put it back.” Stan’s breathing was more ragged now.
“Ford, you don’t gotta believe me. Hell, you don’t even gotta forgive me. But I need you to know I never would’ve done that on purpose, never in a million years.”
Ford closed his eyes. “Stan...I don’t think I can do this right now,” he said quietly. “Could you call back another time?”
Stanley was silent for a long moment. Ford had just begun to wonder if he’d walked away from the phone when Stan finally spoke.
“See, the thing about that is...I don’t think there’s gonna be another time, poindexter.”
Ford was instantly on alert. He straightened in his chair, gripping the edge of the desk tightly with his free hand. “Stanley, what are you doing? Where are you?”
“So long, Stanford.”
The line went dead.
Fiddleford stirred. He blinked awake to see Stanford sitting at his desk with the light on, frantically punching numbers into the telephone.
“...Ford?” he mumbled, smacking his lips to get the nasty sleep-taste out. “What’re you doin’? What time is it?”
Ford ignored him, drumming his fingers anxiously. Come on, Stan, answer the phone. Come on. Come on. Answer the phone.
Someone on the other end picked up.
“...Hello?”
Ford just about burst with relief. “STANLEY, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
Fiddleford yelped and tumbled off of the bed.
“How...how’d you call me back?” Stan asked, confused.
“I dialed sixty-nine, you knucklehead,” Ford snapped. “And I cannot believe you would just...hang up on me like that! Stanley, you can’t say things like that and…” He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen. I’m still angry with you.”
“W-well, yeah, I mean—”
“ No , Stan, listen to me. I’m still angry with you. But that...that doesn’t mean I want you doing something...arhg! Something rash! Alright? No matter what happened...it’s not worth your life. Do you understand?”
There was a pause.
“Sixer...did you think I was gonna off myself?”
Ford froze, then spluttered indignantly, “Well, what else was I supposed to think?!”
“Yeah yeah, okay, I guess I see where—” Stan let out a pained-sounding wheeze. “—and you, you really wouldn’t...want me gone?”
Ford felt a mix of anger and horror. “Of course I wouldn’t! Stanley! ”
“Alright, so normally I’d say this is great. But, uh, the thing is, I don’t think it’s up to you or me.”
If it wasn’t scientifically impossible, Ford would swear that his blood turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”
“See, I kinda got...stabbed. In the neck.”
Ford bit back a scream. “Then...then how are you TALKING to me right now?!” he shouted. Fiddleford, who had been watching one half of a very out-of-context conversation and trying to piece everything together, finally gave up and shuffled to the kitchen to make some coffee.
“Right now, my finger is plugging up my windpipe. And yeah, it’s as uncomfortable as it sounds.” Now that Ford knew what was wrong, he could tell from Stanley’s voice that even just speaking must be causing him unbearable pain. “Keep choking on blood, too, and I’m gettin’ real dizzy, so I probably don’t got a whole lot longer.”
“Stan, how can you be so... nonchalant about something like this?!”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
“ WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL FOR HELP?! THE POLICE, HELL, THE FIRE BRIGADE! ”
“I, uh...I dunno.” Stan’s words were slurring more. “I only had enough for one call.” He began coughing again, and this time, it didn’t stop. Ford listened, horrified, as Stan’s hacking became a sort of gargling sound.
“Stanley? Stanley! Tell me where you are!”
His brother didn’t respond.
Ford heard a dull thud, and then nothing.
Fiddleford stood frozen in the kitchen, eyes wide and two mugs of coffee in his hands, watching as Stanford frantically dialed 69…
...69…
...69…
But nobody picked up.
The phone rang two hours later, and Ford scrambled to answer it.
“Hello?” he said breathlessly.
“Hello, my name is Dana Hursch and I’m a nurse at Trinity Hospital in Philadelphia. Do you happen to know of anyone going by the name ‘Ford’?”
Ford’s heart raced. “Y-yes, that’s me. Stanford Pines. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Pines, a John Doe was admitted with a stab wound earlier this morning. We couldn’t find any identification, but he had a scrap of paper in his pocket with “Ford” and this phone number written on it. He’s a Caucasian male, brown hair, about 6’1'', 190 pounds—”
“It’s my brother, Stanley. Is he alright? What happened?”
The nurse paused. “I’m afraid it’s too early to say, but he’s been stabilized.”
Ford let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and squeezed his eyes shut.
It was alright. Stanley was alright.
“—sir? Sir, are you still there?”
“Er, I’m so sorry,” Ford said, snapping back to attention. “What were you saying?”
“I asked if you would be coming to see him. If so, we may have some paperwork for you to fill out once you get here.”
“I…” Ford hesitated, glancing at the books and papers piled up on his desk. He had worked ahead in most of his classes, anyway. “...Yes, I’ll be there.”
By the time he hung up, Fiddleford was munching on poptarts at the kitchen table, having given up on sleep. “So,” he asked through a mouthful, “yer goin’ ta visit yer brother?”
Ford sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It certainly appears that way, yes. Fiddleford, I have an enormous favor to ask. May I borrow your car?”
Fiddleford stared at him for a long moment, then finally nodded. “Alright. But I’m drivin’.”
Now it was Ford’s turn to stare. “What? Fidds, I—I can’t ask that of you—”
“Stanford Pines, we have known each other fer four years and I am only just now learnin’ about yer twin brother. I’m comin’.”
“Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”
“And also, you can’t drive worth crap.”
“I...suppose that’s fair.”
Fiddleford hummed in agreement and finished off his poptart with gusto. “Now!” he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them excitedly. “Exactly how does this Stanley feller feel about the banjo?”
“Right this way,” a nurse said, leading them to room 168. “We had to insert a tracheostomy tube to help him breathe. With any luck, his windpipe will heal enough that the tube can be removed. But for now, he won’t be able to talk.”
Ford swallowed thickly as she said this. Fiddleford shot his friend a worried glance.
“We have him on a ventilator as well,” the nurse continued. “He panicked when he first woke up, but hopefully seeing some familiar faces will help calm him down this time around.”
Ford felt a pang in his chest. Stanley had been attacked—nearly killed —and no one had been around to comfort him when he needed it. He wondered how many other times Stan had been alone and afraid, unwilling to reach out to his family unless he was literally on death’s door. He wondered what would have happened if Stan hadn’t decided to call him.
Well, he knew what would have happened. Ford would be in his dorm right now, rewriting his notes and working towards his PhD. Living life as usual, with no idea that his twin was fighting for his.
It made him sick to his stomach.
They finally reached Stanley’s room. The nurse pushed the door open, and they followed her in.
Ford had attempted to mentally prepare himself, but he still barely managed to bite back a gasp at the sight of his brother.
He was hooked up to all sorts of tubes and machines, IV bags dripping and a monitor displaying his heart beat. Bandages wrapped around his neck, and it was clear that he had recently been in a fight; bruises mottled his face, and a small brace was taped across his nose. Aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest, he was still as a statue underneath the thin hospital bed sheets. And although he and Stanford hadn’t quite been identical since puberty—Stan maintaining his “fighting weight,” Ford remaining gawky and thin—Ford could see that this was no longer the case.
It was like looking into a mirror.
A pale, fragile, beaten mirror, and sweet Moses, they were only twenty-one, barely even adults and Stanley had almost died, and how could this happen?
Ford sank into a chair beside the bed, burying his head in his hands. Fiddleford patted him comfortingly on the shoulder and took the seat by the window.
Ford lost track of time as they sat there in silence that, if not comfortable, was at least peaceful. It could have been two minutes; it could have been two hours. Aside from occasionally looking up to see if Stanley was still asleep, he kept his head in his hands.
Fiddleford brought a mechanical engineering textbook to read, taking breaks periodically to check on Ford. His friend seemed to be in a sort of trance-like state that Fiddleford had never seen him in before, not even when studying for finals. It was as if something had broken inside him, and for all Fiddleford’s mechanical genius, it wasn’t something he knew how to fix.
Stanley’s eyes fluttered open.
Neither Ford nor Fiddleford noticed at first; Fiddleford had fallen asleep in his chair, and Ford was staring straight ahead, fingers steepled as he lost himself in the recesses of his mind.
Stan hadn’t noticed them yet, either—he was more preoccupied with the tube in his throat.
He tried to make a sound, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t swallow, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move and he was going to die here, he was going to die and he hadn’t made millions yet, hadn't made nearly enough to come home and his family would never even know what happened to him and he was all alone —
Somehow, he broke through the foggy haze just enough to pull out the ventilator. Which hurt, yeah, but only for a second and then he could breathe and that was all that mattered. He laid there, gasping for air, and something still felt wrong. He brought a hand up to his throat and felt... something there. In his neck. They—they poked a hole in his neck, and there’s another tube, but this one’s stuck there, just a tiny tube in a tiny hole and there’s another hole, one that throbs and aches underneath the bandages, and then Stan remembers everything.
“Stanley?”
Stan turned his head, and he almost started bawling right then and there (and if his eyes were wet, it was just because of the painkillers) because sitting in a chair next to his bed was his brother.
He tried to say his name. But he couldn’t. And just when he was about to start panicking all over again, Ford grabbed his hand.
“Easy, Stan, it’s alright. They had to give you a tracheostomy tube. You won’t be able to talk while it’s in, but the doctor said that they’ll take it out as soon as your windpipe is healed.” Ford turned, looking at the ventilator. “Well, I suppose it’s a good sign if you don’t need that anymore.”
Stan just continued to stare at him, as if any moment he might disappear. He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. Ford sighed.
“Stanley, I literally just told you—” Ford’s eyes widened. “Wait, I have an idea!” He fished around in his pockets and pulled out a pen. He stood and began searching the room. “I can’t find any paper, but these napkins should do the trick.”
He handed the napkins and pen to Stan, who slowly wrote down two words.
YOU CAME
Ford looked up, startled. “Of course I came!”
Stan held his gaze for a moment before turning away.
Ford sighed.
“Stanley...it was incredibly stupid for you to call me. You’re lucky the paramedics arrived in time to save you. Really, calling me instead of medical help—what were you thinking?”
Stan closed his eyes, still not turning back around. Stanley Pines, ol’ dumb and sweaty. Not good enough for anything, never even graduated high school —
He froze as Ford took his hand.
When Ford spoke, his voice was husky and cracking and if Stan didn’t know any better, he would think Ford was crying.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done with myself if I’d lost you.”
The world stopped turning.
Stan slowly turned back to face him, eyes shining with tears.
Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, Ford’s shone back.
And for the first time in four years, the Pines twins hugged.
“Well, hop-scotchin’ toadbandits, Stanford, ya shoulda’ woken me up! Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, at yer service!”