A/N: sorry this has taken so long, but I've been gone almost all summer so far.

Chapter Three: Westbrook Hospital

"Finished!" Aaron called from inside the closet. "I'm finally done with those awful orders. Why do people wait till the last minute to request books, and then insist they're delivered by express?"

"Just to torture the assistant bookkeepers." Jason muttered from the couch. "And their starving brothers."

"What?" Aaron asked, emerging from his office. "Didn't catch the last bit."

"Go grocery shopping, you idiot. We're down to three pickles and some crackers."

"There is nothing wrong with . . ."

"Yeah, if you don't have taste buds."

"I've lived off of the stuff for weeks before. I remember when . . ."

"And it's a wonder you survived. Go. Now."

Aaron grinned. "Be back in two hours. I'll do all those horrible things I've neglected in the last two weeks."

"Like buying a toaster that works?"

"Of course not, I need to buy a book for myself." Jason threw a pill at his brother, as Aaron laughed. He grabbed his wallet and car keys before hesitating at the door. "Need anything?'

"Food. Go." Aaron smiled, and nodded.

"Fine, I'm going."

"I don't want going. I want gone."

"Slave driver."

"Hungry teenager, actually."

"You and your appetite. . ."

"You and your lack of taste . . . Shoo."

As soon as Aaron closed the door gently behind him, Jason knew it was a mistake. It was too quiet without Aaron's relentless tapping and muttered curses. The silence stretched into a palpable thing, and the stillness drew his eyes to the mantle. Again and again, he looked away, only to return to those framed pictures like a moth returns to light. Once three brothers had been a laughing trio, now they were down to a fractured duet.

The silence was deafening. He couldn't think. He couldn't' breathe. The eyes on the pictures were staring at him. Andrew was glaring at him accusingly. "You could have stopped this. . ."

Jason grabbed his jacket and nearly tripped over The Pilgrim's Progress in his hurry to get out. But nothing can outrace memory, so ten minutes later he and his battered bike found themselves at the end of a long parking lot. Westbrook Hospital rose up to greet them.

The hospital hosted a pretty lounge, with fresh-baked cookies every twenty-four hours. Resting by the light coffee tables, red plush chairs welcomed weary visitors. The secretary was helpful, and hosted a bright smile. But leave behind the first floor and press the faded buttons on the elevator, and the false pretences of hope disappeared into whitewashed walls and lifeless rooms.

On the fifth floor, fluorescent bulbs shone harshly on Jason's face and back. They were looking at him, and judging his actions. Eggshell whiter walls closed in on him without color or life. His heels clicked loudly on the speckled tiles, but the doctors did not look up. They were used to his presence, and a few murmured greeting. The hellos and smiles seemed out of place on this floor, where his brother lay unmoving and unknowing.

There was a loud crash to his right, and three doctors came running, white coats flying behind them. An old man, who had wandered from his room, looked down at his feet, surprised by the overturned cart and the red liquid spreading across the floor from spilled cups. His lips moved, but no words came from them. He leaned against the wall, and slowly let himself slide down on the floor, sitting in the cranberry juice and noticing nothing.

Two of the doctors knelt by the old man. He was rocking back and forth and still muttering nothing. The youngest doctor was clearly trying to coax him to get up. But he simply stared ahead, eyes glazed and empty.

Jason shuddered, and turned away. The same nausea that had forced him from the apartment, drove him to round the corner at a run. So he never saw the person standing there until he almost knocked her to the ground.

"I'm sorry, ma – oh." It wasn't a doctor he had run into. The old woman had long neon scarves wrapped about her head and neck. A single earring dangled from one ear, while the other was bare. Her eyes were slightly glassy, but unlike the rocking man she seemed to see him. She stretched out a hand to steady herself on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes.

"Are you the one, dear?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

She answered in a singsong voice of nonsense phrases and Jason relaxed. You got used to the crazies after a month. They were perpetually losing imaginary things and asking you to find them. It was better than her thinking he was a long-lost relative; those were harder to get rid of. "The sick boy, the sad boy, and the swift boy. Three are in one and one in three, and all are written in jade."

"You must have lost your room, ma'am. I'll find the doctor for you."

"It's not a doctor that I be needing, boy." A harsh, broken sound came from her mouth. "Nor what you need, I imagine."

"Yes, that's nice. Come with me."

"He won't get better you know."

"Who?'

"Andrew."

Jason stopped leading her towards the corner. "What? How do you know that name?"

"Are you the one, boy?" She stared at him intently, searching his face for something. "You've got the jade eyes."

"How do you know about Andrew?'

His words broke her concentration. "What are you talking about, young man?" She stuck out her hand imperiously to him. "Help me find my room and my doctor. I'm tired."

"Tell me. How do you know about Andrew/"

"Who in the world is that? I don't know any Andrews, save my grandfather. But he's dead now. The war took him from me, just like death took them all." She pulled a loose scarf about her neck.

"But you said . . ."

"Boy, I think you must be a little loopy. You came rounding this corner in such a rush, and now saying nonsense about an Andrew."

"But . . ."

"Well, if you object I can always find my own room." She stomped off, leaving Jason standing bewildered in the middle of the hallway.

Jason opened the white door gently, and peered in. the bedside table held a lit lamp and an open book from Aaron's last visit. But nothing else had changed. Andrew lay still and pale on the hospital sheets. Nothing had changed; not even an eyelash had fluttered. Andrew slept the dead, and would not, could not wake to greet his brother's entrance.

"Andrew. Andrew, man. You need to wake up soon. Aaron's as absent-minded as ever, and he's started daring the blonde wonder. You remember Ali? I need you to help me break them up because she's awful. She thinks Aristotle is the name of a movie star or pop singer.

'Dad's surviving, but sometimes he gets this far-away look and I know he's thinking about you. Mom is going crazy; yesterday, she threw all her blue paints away. She won't say why, but we know. It's because of you, man. When we found you in that wreck of a bus, and we knew it was you before we even saw your face because of that stupid blue jacket you always wore – wear. And . . ." He broke off. "Well, maybe that's not the right thing to tell you. Can you even hear me, Andrew? The doctors say maybe, but I'm sick of maybe. I want facts and answers, and heck I want you back. Come on, Andrew. Wake up. Wake up."

He didn't know how long he sat in the chair by the doorway, watching the rise and fall of his brother's breath and matching his inhales and exhales. He didn't even know why he was still there, or why he was still hoping. But no matter what he told Aaron, he still hoped with all his heart that Andrew would wake up.

At one point, he must have drifted off into dreams. The chair wasn't comfortable and the room was too cold, but somehow he found the sleep that always eluded him those nights he lay in apartment twenty-three. But it was an uncomfortable sleep full of shadows.

"Visitor hours are over, Jason." A petite nurse looked at him sadly as she woke him up. "It's time for you to go home now."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Jason looked at his brother's face, unchanging. If only, he would just wake up. If he asked him to stay, hellfire would not keep him away. But Andrew said nothing.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"I don't think I have a choice."

"You don't have to, you know. I know you're hurting . . ."

"He's my brother." And that was both the problem and the answer.