Chapter 11

The paramedics stabilized Matthew in the barn—neck brace on, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths, a thick bandage over the gash on his head. Blood caked his hair, stark against his pale skin, but his chest rose and fell steadily.

Once they had him loaded in the ambulance, they pulled onto the snow-packed highway, sirens slicing through the cold winter air. Tom’s truck followed close behind as fast as he dared on the treacherous roads, with Ellen sitting anxiously in the passenger seat. Alex sat on the bench seat behind them, his blood-soaked scarf crumpled in his lap.

Matthew began to wake up more as they neared the hospital, a low groan escaping under the mask as he tried to sit up, but he was strapped securely to the stretcher.

“He’s coming around now,” the medic called out, checking the monitors. “Matthew, can you hear me? Just take it easy and lay still, kiddo. You had a nasty fall. We’re taking you to the hospital to get checked out.”

“Head  . . . hurts,” he mumbled, gagging slightly as he turned to one side, and the medic grabbed a bag for him.

“We’re almost there, Matthew. Hang tight, buddy. You’re gonna be okay.”

*

Tom’s truck screeched to a halt in the ER parking lot, and Ellen bailed out, her coat half-zipped, with Tom and Alex following right behind. A nurse met them in the small lobby—faded blue walls, a muted TV showing weather updates, a lone elderly woman looking up from a magazine to see what all the fuss was about.

“Everything’s going to be fine. We’re checking him out now,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Have a seat in here and we’ll update you as soon as we can.”

Alex sank into a plastic chair, the bloody scarf still in his hands, his pulse thundering in his ears. Ellen sat beside him, clutching a tissue, while Tom paced near the door, snow melting off his boots.

“What happened out there?” Ellen asked, her voice trembling as she touched Alex’s arm.

Alex swallowed hard. “We were in the hayloft. The ladder—he warned me before that one of the rungs was loose, but I guess he forgot. It broke, and he fell . . . hit his head on some pieces of wood on the floor. He wasn’t moving and there was so much blood. I called 911—I didn’t know what else to do.”

Tom nodded, his jaw tight. “You did the right thing, Alex.”

Ellen’s hand lingered on Alex’s arm, her eyes searching his face. She saw the way he clutched the scarf, the raw fear in his eyes.

“He’s strong,” she said softly, squeezing Alex’s arm. “He’ll pull through. I’m glad you were there with him and called for help as quickly as you did.”

Twenty minutes later, the doctor emerged—clipboard in hand, her expression serious but not grim.

“Hargrove family?”

They stood, Alex with them, his stomach knotting.

“Matthew’s got a concussion and a scalp laceration that took twelve stitches,” she said. “But no skull fracture, fortunately. He’s awake now—groggy, nauseated—which is normal for a concussion. He’s also got a headache and some ringing in his ears, but he’s talking and oriented. We’re doing a CT scan to rule out any bleeding, and I want to watch him overnight, but he’ll be fine.”

Ellen exhaled, tears spilling over. “Can we see him?”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “He’s in a monitored room, getting settled. Just wait here and I’ll have the nurse come get you when she’s finished getting him tucked in.”

They sat again, the news a lifeline but not enough to loosen the grip of worry entirely. Alex stared at the scarf, guilt gnawing at him. If only he’d remembered sooner, grabbed hold of him before he fell . . . something.

Ellen’s hand found his again, steadying him.

“It’s going to be okay, Alex,” she said quietly. “Do you want to come back to see him?”

Alex nodded mutely, a wan smile on his face.

The nurse called them back a few minutes later, leading them to a small holding room. Matthew lay in bed, monitors beeping in the background, an IV in his arm, gauze wrapped around his head. His eyes were half-open, hazy, but he managed a weak smile as Ellen went to his side, taking his hand.

“Hey, Mom,” he mumbled, voice rough.

Tom stood at the foot of the bed, a pained expression on his face, while Alex stayed near the door, feeling out of place. Matthew’s gaze found him, his eyes opening wider.

“Alex . . . you okay?”

“Me?” Alex blurted incredulously, stepping closer. “You’re the one with the stitches in your head.” He grabbed Matthew’s hand.

“Just . . . don’t scare me like that again, okay?”

“Sorry,” Matthew murmured, his eyes drifting shut, his hand still clasped in Alex’s.

*

Night settled over the hospital and the ER remained quiet, except for the hum of machines and the soft murmur of voices from the nurses’ station.

Matthew’s room was dimly lit, the monitors casting a glow on his face. He’d drifted in and out since they’d settled him here, groggy from the concussion, his head throbbing like a drum.

The CT scan had come back clean—no bleeding, no swelling, just a nasty laceration and a brain that needed time to rest. The doctor had been clear: a few days of quiet, no screens, no stress, and he’d likely be back to himself, though the headache and nausea might linger for a bit.

Ellen sat in a chair by his bed, knitting bag at her feet and a half-finished sweater in her lap. Tom had gone home earlier to grab a change of clothes and a few things to help Ellen freshen up—including the knitting bag, so she’d have something to do while she waited. Satisfied that his son was out of danger, Tom left again to keep an eye on Jessie and Grace at home, promising to return in the morning.

Ellen, though, wasn’t budging. “I’m staying,” she’d told him firmly. Her boy was hurt and she had no intention of going home without him.

Alex stayed too, refusing to leave Matthew’s side. He replayed the fall endlessly in his mind—the crack of the rung, Matthew’s body hitting the floor, the blood. Every time he stirred, Alex would snap to, searching for signs of the boy who’d been laughing with him in the hayloft just hours ago.

Matthew had become more alert, though still sluggish. “Feels like I got hit by a tractor,” he groused, wincing as he touched the dressing on his head. He retched, the nausea hitting hard, and his mom was there with a basin, rubbing his back like he was ten again.

“You’re alright, sweetie,” she’d said, her voice steady.

Later, with Matthew dozing again, she looked over at Alex, her eyes searching. She saw how he hovered over Matthew—the concern, the tenderness, the way he’d stayed through every update, every momentary awakening. She paused, her knitting needles still for a moment as she studied his face, then resumed with a nod.

“You should rest too, Alex,” she said with a gentle smile. “You’ll need to be strong for when he’s up and arguing again.”

Alex managed a little smile in return. “I’m okay. Just . . . want to be here when he wakes up.”

Ellen nodded, her knitting needles clicking away. “You’re a good friend, Alex,” she said softly.

*

Later that night, Matthew’s eyes popped open again, squinting against the dim light.

“Ugh . . . my ears keep ringing,” he mumbled. He turned his head slightly, wincing, and saw Alex. “You’re still here?”

“Where else would I be?” Alex said, leaning forward, his eyes intense. “You owe me for this, man. You scared the shit out of me.”

Matthew chuckled weakly, then grimaced, the movement jarring his head. “I know . . . I owe you big.”

His gaze lingered on Alex. Those words he’d heard in the barn, through the thunderous pain in his head—You gotta stay with me—kept circling around in his mind, along with the memory of Alex holding his hand the night before.

Yeah, he guessed he did owe him something.

Ellen set her knitting aside, leaning closer. “How’s the headache, sweetie?”

“Like a jackhammer,” Matthew admitted, but he managed a lopsided grin. “Better than before, though.”

“Good,” she said, smoothing his blanket and patting his shoulder. “You rest now. We’re not going anywhere.”

The night wore on, Matthew slipping in and out of sleep, each awakening more lucid, his complaints—headache, nausea, a blurry spot in his vision that came and went—easing with time.

Alex stayed, dozing in fits, waking every time Matthew spoke, grateful for the sound of his voice.

Ellen watched them both out of the corner of her eye, hoping that whatever seemed to be growing between them would find its way.