Chapter Text
Four weeks.
That’s how long John B had time to find an internship.
Four weeks to come up with something that would look decent on paper and get every adult in his life off his back.
Four weeks to pretend he was taking his senior year seriously—which he wasn't, not at all.
Not since his dad ditched out once again and left his seventeen-year-old son alone at home, just to chase treasures that are probably nothing more than old stories being passed around at bonfires. Because somehow, life in the Outer Banks had to be kept interesting.
Since then, his school attendance has become a rarity. Can anyone really blame him though? What teenager would go to school in the morning if there wasn’t a parent yanking away the blanket and threatening to take their phone away if they don’t get moving.
John B had enough ideas where he could spend the internship—it wasn’t that.
He already imagined himself in a surf shop—waxing boards, folding shirts, pretending to care about overpriced board shorts. Or even better, at the beach in a lifeguard uniform, only half-paying attention while flirting with whatever beach chick wandered too close to his tower.
But John B, being John B, spent most of that time out in the waves, surfing the days away and telling himself, I’ve got time. I’ll go into the city tomorrow. I’ll ask around then.
By the time he realized it might actually be time to secure a place, it was too late.
Everything he wanted was already full. The kooks had snatched up the lifeguard stations. The surf shop gigs went to kids with, you know, actual resumes and matching shoes. Even the marina had a waitlist.
So when he showed up in Mrs. Ellison’s office—the school counselor, kind but firm when it came to her troublemaker students—he was half-hoping she’d have some miracle solution; she gave him the exact opposite.
“It’s either beach clean-up, or—” she paused and looked at John B with a gaze that screamed, I’m doing this because I want you to end up as someone this school can be proud of. “Or the UNC hospital—Neuro rehab ward.”
John B’s jaw hit the floor. “You want me to work with dying people?”
Mrs. Ellison sighed and slid a flyer across the desk that said:
Volunteers Needed–Neurorehabilitation Program
Support patients ages 12–24 recovering from spinal cord injuries, traumatic brain injuries, strokes, and other neurological conditions. Help with daily activities, companionship, games, outdoor time, and more.
Below that was a picture of a young woman standing next to a man in a wheelchair, their hands mid-high-five, smiling way too brightly for a flyer about hospitals and rehabs.
“It’s not a hospice ward,” Mrs. Ellison clarified, her tone sharp enough to cut through his horror. “No one is dying there—they're learning how to live again. Surviving things most people couldn’t even imagine.”
John B was at a loss for words.
He wanted to get up and bolt—but then what? Hide out in his room for two weeks, pretending to be sick? That definitely wouldn’t work. They already had him on their radar. Worst case, the cops show up at his door and drag him to foster care once they realize the reason for his absence is the small fact that his dad left him. Again.
But maybe even worse than that was the idea of disappointing his dad. Because even when Big John could be an absolute shitty parent… John B was still his son. And every son wants to make their dad proud.
John B blinked. “Neuro rehab—spinal cord injuries, brain damage, strokes. So… drool, brain-dead people, me wiping someone’s ass? What if I don’t understand them? What if they need something and I can’t—no, I can’t do this.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then down his face, practically tugging at his own jaw like he could physically pull himself out of the situation. His knee bounced. Fast.
“Look… I’ll sob. I’m not good at seeing people hurt. And the flyer says ages twelve to twenty-four. They have kids, man. Kids.” His voice cracked on the second kid; it physically hurt to even imagine that children could be hurt so badly they’d need neuro rehab just to get through life.
“If I see even one kid struggling to move, you can put me in therapy forever. I won’t recover. That’s lifelong trauma waiting to happen. I—”
“You won’t be doing anything medical, John B,” Mrs. Ellison cut in, before he completely spiraled. “You’re not supposed to fix anyone. You’ll get simple tasks—pushing wheelchairs, playing cards, helping serve meals, walking patients down to therapy, keeping lonely people company. Mostly, you’ll just be hanging out.”
Six weeks.
Six weeks of seeing people who had lost everything—their movement, their speech, their minds.
Six weeks of watching kids younger than him learn how to eat with a spoon strapped to their palm, because their fingers just hung there—limp, useless, curled inwards like they’d forgotten how to be hands.
Six weeks of teenagers in helmets, working all day just to hold their heads up for a few minutes.
Six weeks of cartoon characters taped to feeding pump bags, of ventilators humming behind kids who couldn’t breathe on their own.
Six weeks of mouth-controlled wheelchairs beeping down the hallway. Of twisted limbs, soft restraints, and knees that bent the wrong way because the body wouldn’t cooperate anymore.
Six weeks of maybe seeing someone his age strapped to a hospital bed—not because they were dangerous, but because their muscles fired off without warning, and they might hurt themselves just trying to roll over.
Six weeks of early-twenties ex-athletes sobbing in frustration, not because of the pain, but because they had to ask someone else to wipe them after they used the bathroom, after winning one medal after the other, back before the world fell apart.
What is he gonna do then? Sit down in one of these uncomfortable plastic chairs, crack a smile, make a joke, offer them pudding, and pretend he isn’t three seconds away from sobbing every time a ventilator makes that horrible hissing sound?
Would he even be able to comfort them? Or would he say something that hurts them, makes them feel small or broken or pitiful?
He wasn’t strong enough for this. Not emotionally. Not even a little bit.
He sat there for a moment, his eyes burning, trying to swallow down the knot in his throat.
“Can I even hug them when they cry? Or hold their hand? Am I allowed to do that, or do I just stand there awkwardly while someone is sobbing like, ‘Hey man, uh… Tough break. Want a Jell-O cup??”
He threw his hands up. “Like seriously, what’s the protocol? Do I offer a fist bump? A motivational speech? Do I just… silently vibe in the corner while someone processes the trauma of losing half their nervous system? What if I panic and pat their knee? What if they can’t feel their knee?!”
Mrs. Ellison raised her coffee mug up to her lips in slow motion, taking a slurping sip, looking over the rim in horror. “Please don’t pat someone's knee, John B. Do anything… just not that.”
John B froze mid-thought, eyes wide.
“Not the knee?” he repeated.
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay. Yeah. Cool. Totally. No knees. Got it.” He nodded too fast.
She kept staring. He nodded again, slower this time, like that might make it look more convincing.
She blinked once.
He blinked back. “I wasn’t going to do it on purpose, you know. I’m not out here scheming on joints.”
“John B.”
“Right, right—of course.” He scratched his temple with one finger, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “No contact unless invited. No knee patting. No awkward thumbs-up while someone is crying. Got it.”
Mrs. Ellison gave him a long, soul-tired sigh and took another sip.
He stared down at his shoes. “...Can I fist bump? I mean, if they can’t move their hands, that would be the easiest solution. Better than offering my hand and getting a death stare because they think, I can’t grip it, you stupid idiot.”
“It depends,” she said gently. “Some patients love touch. Some don’t. You’ll learn to ask. You’ll follow their lead.”
John B nodded, more like a flinch than agreement. “Right. Cool. Yeah. So—‘follow the lead of someone who’s nonverbal and paralyzed.’ That’ll be easy.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “I’m gonna screw this up so bad,” he mumbled. “You don’t understand what a liability I am. What if I unplug something vital? Like… I want to wipe a tray and boom, disconnected someone's lungs.”
Mrs. Ellison raised one eyebrow, both her hands around the mug.
“And what if someone’s trying to tell me something, but they’ve got, like, slurred speech or they use a communication board or something, and I panic and nod because I think they said ‘water,’ but actually they said ‘I’m choking,’ and I just hand them a juice box and walk away like a psychopath?”
“John B—”
“Or what if I smile at someone and they think I'm mocking them? Worse, I want to help someone sit up, press the wrong button on their bed and launch them at the ceiling.”
“John B!”
That actually made him stop. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart.
“Calm down, please… before you hyperventilate on me,” Mrs. Ellison said with a warmth that could only come from 15 years of working with kids. “They won’t let you near any medical stuff, I promise.”
John B nodded, quieter now, for once not listing all the things that could go wrong. His knee stopped bouncing. “...What was the other option again?”
“Beach clean-up”
“Okay,” John B thought about it for a moment. His choices didn’t look promising, but in the end, clean-up still sounded more bearable than disabled kids and the smell of disinfectant. “Cool, that sounds chill. Kinda peaceful. Eco-therapy. Sand. Ocean. Saving the planet. Hippie girls…”
She watched the scene with raised eyebrows, which definitely didn’t mean any good. “The Hippie girls that you are picturing? That’s actually Rafe Cameron and Topper Thornton”
John B’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Rafe Cameron and Topper Thornton,” She repeated with a way too sweet smile.
His soul physically left his body. “The school bullies? The guys who stole my lunch just because they could? My only lunch that week, by the way… I didn’t have anything else to eat after that. Except for one single, moldy banana. For two days.”
Her eyes softened into something like genuine concern. “And now instead of stealing your lunch, they pick up trash. That’s a low blow, isn’t it?”
John B nodded silently, shoulders slumping under the weight of his own spiraling brain.
“They didn’t get a place,” she said. “And when I told them about the hospital, they made fun of the people in the pictures.”
His brows furrowed.
She continued, quieter. “Topper said, and I quote, ‘I’m not touching people in diapers. I don’t want to get drooled on or punched in the face by uncontrolled limbs’”
John B’s jaw tightened, he was so ready to run out of this room, find topper and beat the shit out of him for saying something so horrible to people who couldn’t do anything about their disabilities. Who just want to be treated like normal people—because that’s exactly what they are, normal people who suffered a life-changing injury.
Normal people who now have to work ten times harder just to eat, or talk, or sit up, or exist in a world that keeps looking away. But that doesn’t make them any less. Just even stronger.
And that bastard laughed. Actually laughed. Like spasticity, or drool, or slurred speech is anything that could be easily made fun of.
His head felt like it was smoking from all the anger building up. Something inside him shifted at that moment. He could feel it.
“But you?” Mrs. Ellison asked, “You said, ‘What if I say the wrong thing and ruin someone’s day?’ And that, right there? That’s why I’m sending you. You’re not like them. You never were.”
Tears started forming in John B’s eyes. It had been a long time since an adult believed in him so much and didn’t back down as soon as he wanted to quit. And maybe that was enough to make him try.
Because deep down, buried beneath all the worries, he knew that he could at least make some kids laugh. make them feel whole for a few hours, even if it’s just because he played cards with them. And maybe he would cry, maybe he would break sometimes, but maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
The worst thing would be walking away—just like Rafe and Topper did. And that just because he’s scared? No way.
“I think you’ll walk into that building and find someone who changes you. And I think you’ll change them too. Rafe and Topper won’t ever get to say that.” She nodded once, like that was the final word—and for her, that was.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek, cracking his knuckles in his lap. “What if I can’t do it?”
Mrs. Ellison tilted her head slightly, stirring her coffee. “Then you come to me, and we figure something else out. That sounds good?”
John B took a deep breath, as if gathering all his strength—because God help him, he would need it—and nodded. “Yeah. Hospital. I’ll cry in closets. Mentally imprint on the first kid that smiles at me. Emotionally collapse. I’ll become best friends with someone who communicates by blinking. I’ll accidentally unplug a feeding tube and throw up in the nurse station. Maybe even get yeeted down the stairs by an out-of-control power wheelchair, but that's still better than beach clean-up with Rafe and Topper.”
Mrs. Ellison didn’t smile—she beamed. “You're gonna start Monday. I promise you, no wheelchair is gonna push you down the stairs.”
She slid the papers across the desk, and John B signed them. His heart felt like he just ran a marathon, but it also felt good. Because he knew he was doing the right thing.
When he gathered his things and was about to walk out the door, Mrs. Ellison called out to him.
“John B? You’re gonna be better at this than you think.”
~~~~~
That night, the chateau was quiet. The only light came from the pale moonlight through the window, casting John B’s face into something too gentle for the thoughts inside his head. The fridge buzzed quietly in the background as he stared at the ceiling, hands folded across his stomach.
The alarm clock on his nightstand read 3:43 A.M., and he hadn’t closed his eyes once.
Since Big John disappeared, the stillness—once a comfort—had become a curse. It meant being alone with his thoughts. Alone with the worries that had been plaguing him since his meeting with Mrs. Ellison that morning.
He had a rough idea of what to expect now, but the flyer still sitting on the kitchen counter held more questions than answers.
He knew what spinal cord injuries, brain injuries, and strokes were. But he had no idea what “other neurological conditions” meant.
So, despite knowing better, he grabbed his laptop, propped it against his pulled-up knees, and typed:
UNC hospital—neuro rehab ward, conditions
The loading bar spun for three minutes before the website opened. The bad wifi gave him even more time to worry about all the things he could find there.
UNC Medical Center – Adolescent Neurorehabilitation Unit
What We Treat:
John B scrolled, eyes flicking down the list.
-Spinal Cord Injury (SCI)
-Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI)
-Stroke
-Hemiplegia
-Cerebral Palsy
-Multiple Sclerosis
-Guillain-Barré Syndrome
-Muscular Dystrophy
-Neuropathic Pain
-Spasticity
-Ataxia
-Dysphagia
-Locked-In Syndrome
He stopped at Ataxia.
He never heard that word before, but somehow it sounded poetic… Kind of pretty, actually.
But what he saw when he opened a new tab and typed ‘What is Ataxia?’, wasn't pretty at all.
“Ataxia is a neurological condition affecting coordination, balance, and muscle control. Often caused by damage to the cerebellum, it can lead to unsteady movements, tremors, speech difficulties, and challenges with walking, fine motor skills, or even swallowing.”
He re-read it four times.
His brain, traitorous and fast, immediately went to one thing: A person wobbling and walking like a baby deer, their head and hands shaking as they tried to feed themselves.
Oh, so like bobbleheads?
The thought came uninvited, and John B immediately cringed. He slammed the laptop shut and collapsed back into the mattress, slapping a hand over his mouth, even though he hadn’t even spoken it out loud. But he thought it, and that was horrible enough.
“Jesus Christ, John B, what is wrong with you?” he groaned in horror, dragging both hands down his face.
Shame sat heavy in his gut. Why had he thought that? Why had that been the first thing to pop into his brain? It wasn’t even funny. It was just awful. He was awful.
That’s why he shouldn’t be allowed near vulnerable people. Because jokes pop into his head before he can stop them, and one day he might say them out loud.
“I shouldn’t be allowed near them.” He muttered, as he rolled onto his side and clutched a pillow to his chest, like somehow it could absorb all his feelings.
But then he opened the laptop again.
Because the truth was, he would meet someone with Ataxia. He would meet someone with a trach or curled fingers. And then he needed to know how to treat them and not be weird.
So, he opened his notes app and started one, titled:
Things I shouldn’t do or say to Disabled people:
-Don’t call them bobbleheads, ever.
-Don’t pat their knee. (Thank you, Mrs. Ellison)
-Don’t stare at their equipment.
-Don’t ask what happened unless they bring it up.
-Don’t try to help without asking.
-Don’t joke about trauma. Even if it’s meant to lighten the mood.
-Don’t talk louder like that’s going to help. They’re not deaf. (Except if they are, then speak loud and clearly)
-Don’t talk to their caregiver instead of them.
-Don’t say “I could never do what you do.” Just… don’t.
-Don’t act like they’re fragile glass.
-Don’t act like they’re invisible either.
-Don’t make it about me.
He stared at the list. It wasn’t long. It didn’t feel like enough.
But it was a start.
He clicked back to the tab with the ataxia article. This time, he read slower. Really read it.
There was a section on causes—brain injury, genetics, stroke.
And then a quote at the bottom, from a fifteen-year-old patient named Eli: “I look drunk when I walk. I can’t carry a plate without it falling. I can’t button my shirt or hold breakable things. But I still love video games, I still tell bad jokes, and I still want to be invited to things. Ataxia isn’t all I am. I’m just a guy with a wobbly body and a working heart.”
John B’s chest cracked open.
He added one more line to his notes:
-They’re not their condition.
And then, like it would help solidify it in his soul, he added another note underneath:
Things I should do:
-Ask their name.
-Remember it.
-Talk to them, not around them.
-Laugh with them, not at them.
-Respect every little thing that takes effort.
-Be kind. Even when I’m tired.
-Let myself be changed.
The list wasn’t perfect. Neither was he—he was far from perfect actually. Just a terrified teenager who would mess up more times than he could count, but at 4:37 A.M., with the moon painting stripes across his blanket and the weight in his chest just a little lighter, John B closed the laptop for the second time.
This time, he didn’t cringe.
This time, he let the stillness come.
And eventually—finally—he slept.