Chapter Two: what coma?

I woke up to beeping.

Slow. Steady. Annoying.

For a moment, I thought I’d fallen asleep in class again. That happened sometimes. But when I tried to sit up, something tugged at my arm, and my head throbbed like it had been split open and glued back together wrong.

“Pierce?”

My eyes fluttered open.

The ceiling above me was white. Too white. The air smelled like disinfectant and plastic.

Hospital.

My mom sat beside the bed, gripping my hand like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go. Her eyes were red, dark circles carved deep beneath them.

“You’re awake,” she whispered, like she didn’t quite trust it.

“What… happened?” My voice came out hoarse.

She laughed—then cried—then wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “You scared me,” she said shakily. “You scared everyone.”

“How long was I out?” I asked.

She hesitated.

My stomach twisted.
“Two months,” she said softly. “You’ve been in a coma for two months, Pierce.”

The beeping filled the silence.

Two months.

I stared at the ceiling, my head spinning.

The screaming was gone.

The light. The fear. The images.

All of it felt distant now—like a dream that refused to stay buried.

But as my fingers curled weakly around my mother’s hand, one thought refused to leave me:

Whatever I saw that night—

It wasn’t finished with me yet.

They let me go home three days later.

Doctors said things like neurological episode and stress response, like slapping labels on it would make it smaller. They warned me about headaches and memory gaps and told my mom to “keep an eye on me.”

Like she hadn’t already been doing that.

The house felt wrong when I walked back in.

Same walls. Same couch. Same faint smell of lemon cleaner that never quite went away. But something had shifted—like furniture moved just enough in the dark that you’d stub your toe if you weren’t careful.

I dropped my bag by the stairs and looked around. “Mom?
 

“In the kitchen!” she called.

I followed her voice and stopped short.

She wasn’t alone.

A man stood by the counter, tall and rigid, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He held a mug like it was something fragile, fingers wrapped carefully around the handle. His back was to me, dark hair combed flat, posture straight enough to hurt.

He turned when he heard my footsteps.

And my stomach dropped.

“Mr. Hale?” I said.

My old math teacher smiled.

It was the same tight smile he’d worn in class—the one that never reached his eyes. The one that made the room feel colder without anyone knowing why.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth, measured. “Pierce Wood. You look… better.”

I stared at him, trying to reconcile the image in front of me with the man who’d once ripped a test from my hands and told me careless mistakes showed weak character.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Mom shot me a look. “Pierce.”

“What?” I said. “He— he was my teacher.”

“Was,” Mr. Hale corrected calmly. “I don’t teach at your school anymore.”

That didn’t make me feel better.

Mom stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Pierce,” she said gently, “Mr. Hale is… well. He’s been helping out while you were in the hospital.”

Helping out.

The words felt wrong.

“He’s staying with us for a while,” she added.

I looked at her. Really looked.

She seemed tired. Not just worried—worn down. Like she’d been carrying something heavy for too long and had finally decided to set it down, no matter where it landed.

Mr. Hale met my gaze again

There was something sharp behind his eyes.

Evaluating.

“You gave us quite a scare,” he said. “Collapsing like that. Stress can do dangerous things to young minds.”

My head throbbed suddenly, a dull ache blooming behind my eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “Are you?”

The question felt loaded.

Before I could answer, Mom clapped her hands together too brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Pierce, go sit down. You need rest.”

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

As I turned away, I felt it—

That same pressure.