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That morning it’s the scent of rain that does it—a benign hint of the fall to come after three dry weeks. It had been raining the morning that Adamson died, and it’s all Robby’s brain needs to flip inside out, to rip reality right down the middle and muddle the present and past. Robby knows for sure that he’s standing in Jack’s apartment, bare feet pressed to the cool of the tile floor, hoodie zipped up to the neck against the early morning chill, a cup of coffee clutched in his hand. But he’s also standing in the pediatric room of the Pitt, sweating inside his protective suit, the sterile scent of plastic too strong in his nostrils. He can hear the breeze in the trees outside, and the incessant beeping of heart monitors above the general din of the ED; can see Adamson’s still form beneath the white of sheets as well as the sinuous curve of the neighbor’s cat as it winds itself around the leg of a chair on Jack’s small balcony. It is impossible to be two places at once; impossible to exist in the ED and the kitchen, and Robby feels his breathing quicken, feels his heart ratchet up as he stands, frozen, pinned in place by here and then and everything and now and all that’s shipwrecked in between.
“Okay,” says Jack softly at his elbow. “I’m gonna take that coffee cup. ” He reaches to do exactly that. “You okay?”
Robby can’t look away from the grain of the café table on the balcony, from the drape of the sheets over Adamson’s feet. He shakes his head.
“It’s a mindfuck,” Jack says, and Robby wants to shake him for the tone of voice he’s using, to tell him to fuck right off, even as he’s so fucking grateful for it. Jack shifts a little, into the corner of Robby’s peripheral vision. “Can you repeat something for me?”
Robby nods.
“My name’s Robby, it’s September 14th, 2026. I’m at Jack’s place, I’m safe.”
Robby would roll his eyes but he can’t. He tries to speak but his throat just works soundlessly for a second. He swallows hard, tries again. “Robby. September 14th. Jack’s place. Safe.”
“Ok bud, you got it. Keep saying it. Just keep saying it.”
Robby grits his teeth instead.
“You feel dumb as rocks, I get it. Say it.” Jack’s voice is still soft, gentle, but there’s a hint of steel to it too. Robby’s heard him use this voice a hundred times in the ED with worried parents, and colleagues who need a time out; with patients who are shit-scared, and loved ones he’s ushering away from trauma two.
“Robby, September 14th, Jack’s place, safe.” He makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat. “Robby, September 14th, Jack’s place, safe.” He keeps on saying it, doesn’t know how long it takes to penetrate his skull. Jack doesn’t move, stays stock still, a shadow to Robby’s right, and eventually Robby manages to close his eyes, break the compulsion to stare and stare again at things that aren’t real. “Robby, September 14th, Jack’s place, safe.”
The pediatric room begins to fade, to loosen its grip on his mind until he can root himself firmly in the here and now, until he feels himself sag, exhausted. Only then does Jack curl a hand around his elbow, tutt at him when he tenses, steer him slowly to a kitchen chair. Robby leans back in his seat and scrubs his hands over his face, feels the way he’s trembling. “Fuck,” he manages weakly. “I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Jack cups the back of his neck for a moment with a steady, warm hand. “Nah,” he says, and moves around the counter to pick up Robby’s old coffee, tip the remnants into the sink, and refill the cup. “Flashbacks, my friend. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” Robby repeats, throwing him a look he hopes reads him for filth. He takes the cup and relishes the bitterness of the brew. Jack pulls out a chair beside him, one eyebrow raised, and Robby huffs a breath. “Fair,” he offers. “I’m sorry.”
“I hope you’re apologizing for that Heathers-ass side-eye and not for your brain,” Jack says.
“Yeah?” Robby considers it. “Yeah.”
“Because you know the biology of this shit, you know how memory’s laid down during trauma, you . . .”
“I do.” Robby nods tiredly. “Believe me, I do.”
Jack leans forward a little and grabs Robby’s arm at the elbow. “This isn’t you losing your mind. This is healing.”
Robby laughs weakly. “Well ,I think that’s fucked up.”
“It sure is.” Jack leans forward and kisses Robby’s forehead, dry lips lingering there. Robby closes his eyes again, chasing the comfort. When Jack pulls away he’s wearing a familiar smile tucked into one side of his mouth. “And now your special prize is to go back to bed.”
“No can do,” Robby says. “I gotta . . .”
“You,” says Jack, “have an appointment with sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
Robby sips his coffee again with a low grumble. “I just got up.”
“Big whoop,” Jack says dryly.
Robby sets his cup carefully on the table. “Come with?”
Jack watches him for a long moment, as if making some kind of assessment. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I can do that.”
Which is how they end up back beneath the covers an hour after climbing out of bed, Jack a warm, solid weight at Robby’s back. Robby lets out a breath, his desire to be whole, to be well, to be free of this shit warring with the part of him that knows he’s no more special than anyone else, just a bundle of neurons floating in water, as fragile as the next person and the person after that.
“I got you,” Jack says around a yawn, fingers splayed against Robby’s chest.
“I got you, too,” Robby says back, and drifts a while before he sleeps. “September 14th” he murmurs. “Jack’s place. I’m safe.”