I reach down, let my fingers dangle in the moonlight. The air is surprisingly cold, biting my skin, and I fight against the impulse to retrieve my hand. Minutes pass, my eyes close, then open again as a train rumbles by. I hardly notice as sleep descends, for although my body is here on this wooden shelf, wrapped in a comforter that gives no comfort, my fingers growing numb in the cold, my mind is far away in a dimly lit hospital room. It is not the train that startles me, but the sound of footsteps in the hall. I lose consciousness to the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint beep of my heart ringing in my ears.
       As I sleep, my body slowly turns to stone, waiting for a touch that always comes-- but not tonight. Tonight, for the first time in my life, he is not here.

And neither am I.  

     When I wake, however, it is to the gentle, familiar feeling of a caress, fingers brushing through my hair. There is a moment, when I am still emerging from the muddy river of sleep, when I disregard what my mind is telling me… there is so much wrong with this: he is not here, I would know if he was; he has not touched my hand, dangling like bait in a trap over his bed; he is not even tall enough to reach my head up here… but my hopeful heart is fooled for a moment. Then it passes, and I am squeezing my eyes closed, grasping at a dream that is already fading. In my dreams, we are together, and the tension in my chest subsides; the invisible cord that connects us-- has always connected us-- no longer feels like it is about to snap. But the dream eludes me, and I wake to feel the pain rise again.

     The hands in my hair belong to my mother, and she smiles hopefully as I open my eyes.

     “Time to wake up for school.” A familiar phrase, but nothing is familiar today.

     “I am not going to school,” I tell my pillow, but Mom does not hear. I close my eyes. It has only been two days-- I do not know how much longer I can last.
          
~ ~ ~
     The footsteps on my bedroom floor are soft, as if the owner does not wish to rouse me. I do not stir, but she knows that I am awake. It is Sera, of course, and she always knows.

      She alights on a chair by our beds, and for several minutes she does not speak. When she does, I have to strain to hear her.

     “I’m leaving.”

     She sounds apologetic, and I can tell that Mom is forcing her to go. Sera would always rather be helping, and she cannot exactly help me from the unfathomable distance of her calculus class. Besides, I know it will be hard for her to bear her normal routine today, going through the motions of life as if her heart is not balanced on a tipping scale, and she is not wondering every moment if her brother will live. Almost as hard for her, perhaps, as it would be for me.

       Never mind- it would be infinitely harder for me. I can barely manage to keep my eyes open, so badly do I want to leave the stark and cruel world of my reality. Even now, lying fully conscious in my bed, separated from him by a mile that may as well be eternity, I can hear voices murmuring indistinctly, as if through a tightly closed door. The sheets clutched in my hands feel rough and uneven, and the weight of the comforter seems to disappear. My fingers contract by no command of my own around a nonexistent metal bar. Our minds, despite the horrors, are one, our lifeline is stretched but unbroken. I have always received his thoughts, his commands, and now I feel his pain: the physical ache dulled by painkillers and sleep, the mental pain of exhaustion, and the sharp twist that nothing can dissolve-- the pain of separation, of loss, of worry. The last, however, is only mine-- he does not yet realize what has happened, that I am not there. He is dead to the world, and that, in a way to terrible to dwell on, is the worst of all.

       Sera lingers by the door, but finally, like Mom, leaves as she sees that I will not respond. She closes the door, and her fingers that curl around its edge are pale against the wood. I saw the dark circles under her eyes, her pasty skin, her worried expression-- I know what she is going through. But I am heartless right now. My heart is forever and a mile away, and I must go retrieve it.

       I wait another minute, then five, and although I do not sleep it is suddenly nine thirty and the house is silent. I slowly sit up, my arm hanging dead at my side. I feel for the ladder with my toes, then turn carefully to climb down, as I do not trust my legs to catch me if I fall. My left arm is useless after a night hanging off my mattress in the January cold. I will need to move it to get my blood flowing again, but it is difficult to find the will to do so. Nearly all of my willpower is currently aimed at keeping me awake and sane.

        Even the most trivial of tasks seems to take hours this morning, but when I have managed to get out of bed without falling to my death, almost negated that achievement by tripping on the stairs and narrowly missing the railing with my head, not bothered with my teeth, dressed myself appropriately to be seen in public, and navigated the kitchen without so much as glancing at anything resembling food, it has been all of ten minutes. I step outside, start to close the door, and then realize that the thermometer by my head reads 17 F. Only then do I register the cold. The brain under stress is a funny thing.

       Two minutes later, and more practically clothed, I try again. This time I make it to the gate, and I turn towards the hospital almost on instinct. The freezing air on my face had woken me some, and I gaze at the world around me. What I can see of the world, that is, because the winter fog that so often chokes our skies has descended like some giant bird and swallowed the town whole. I have always liked fog; it seems so cozy and safe, like a wooly, soft blanket. Everything is different in the clouds, and I enjoy the odd feeling of anonymity that it gives me. Of course, I usually have someone by my side to recognize and remember me, and reassure me that I am not alone or forgotten. Today, however, hidden in this pea-soup mist, I am both.

        My feet trace the route with hardly a conscious thought on my part, which is a good thing, as I am finding it rather hard to form conscious thoughts at the moment. I manage to reach the hospital without dwelling on anything, and slowly approach the doors, shaking my head to clear it of the nervous fuzziness that dampens my thoughts. It is as if some of the fog has crept inside my head on its cat-feet, and thus invaded has made itself a nest in my brain. I wish it away, then realize how childish I am acting and force myself to be calm. Keep it together, Remus. You are almost there.

       The nurse (or secretary, or whatever she is) at the desk gives me her kid-smile as I walk up to the counter, even though I am taller than her by a good three inches. I will try to be as efficient and pointed as possible when I speak to her, so that the inevitable mess of papers and permissions is done as soon as possible. I have found that the best way to get what you want is to know what you are doing, even if you actually have absolutely no idea. I have also gotten rather good at winging it.
     “I am here to visit a patient.” First step: state your business.

     The secretary gives me a kind and sympathetic smile. Reminds me somewhat of Sera, except that my sister’s smiles are genuine.
     “Name?”
     “Me, or the patient...?” The question hangs awkwardly in the air, and I realize just how out of it I am. It is as if I have been drugged.
     “The patient, dear. Who do you want to see?” The kid-smile is even wider, and I think of an anglerfish looming over a prey. I arrange my features to hide my confusion, and nod briskly. Whom, not who, you vacant cow.
     “Of course. His name is Leo Magellan.” I hesitate slightly before the word ‘is’. How much longer will I be able to say that about him? What if it is false, even now? I am not sure how I am able to stand there, in front of the desk, when I am dying. It is all I can do.

     The anglerfish frowns, forgetting that I am a naive child and must be dealt with gently, as if a parent might overhear and chastise her for spoiling my already spoilt temper with her harsh treatment. I am not particularly short, nor childish-looking, yet somehow adults always see me as young, often too young. Even more than they do Leo, although we are physically identical. Perhaps it is not the physical that they see.

     I am seventeen. But I am weak.

     The anglerfish is confused, and about to speak when I remember. “Try Amabalis.” Her face doesn’t clear.
     “Amabalis Magellan. That is his full name. Type it into your search-thing.” I gesture at her computer impatiently, well aware of how I sound. Search-thing? Really, Remus? But I do not care.
She turns back to her computer, and moves the mouse around, then pauses.
     “A-M-A-B-A-L-I-S. Hurry.” I have been reduced to simple demands, and of an adult, no less. This will not help things along.

     She types excruciatingly slowly, but eventually looks back up at me and smiles politely. “And what relation are you to the patient?”

        I glare at her. Must we really? “I am his twin brother.” Fine, if you insist.

        She hesitates again and frowns at her screen. She is stupid, and I don’t have time for this.

      “He is in ICU,” I supply helpfully. “Probably wing 4, off to my left. I can just go now, if that is okay-- “ She doesn’t respond immediately, so I edge away, hoping that our interaction (I check my watch: six minutes down the drain!) has been sufficient.
     “Ah- just a moment, young man!” She chirps. I groan. The predator has spotted me. “I’m afraid you’ll need an adult. He is in very sensitive condition.”

     I close my eyes. Steel yourself. It will do you no good to blow up now.
     “I am family.” She gives me a look that is supposed to be apologetic but really is just nervous.
     “I’m sorry, but that’s our policy—“
     “Screw your policy,” I mutter. Turning on my heel, I proceed down the corridor to wing 4. Around the corner, I break into a run. I cannot help it, the invisible cord is pulling me. My vision swings, fractures; I am surprised that I can remain on my feet. The blue tile floor becomes a blank ceiling, a fuzzy face, a green wall, a cold metal rail, a florescent light in white, in yellow-- some of it is my eyes, some is Leo’s, but he is not awake, so that does not make sense. Then again, when has anything made sense? Today is a blur of sleep and worry, a stretch of pain like a rubber band, stretching and stretching, and it is about to break.

     Eventually, I do fall, but luckily the jarring of the wall against my head serves to clear it. I stand, most of my weight on the wall, and scan the hallway. No one is near, no worried nurses hurrying to help me. Good.

     It occurs to me that, truly, it is not as if I have been drugged. It is as if I was on a drug for my entire life, a wonderful, happy, illusionary drug, and now it has been lifted, and its pretty hallucinations gone. I am in withdrawal.

     The ICU doors are at the end of the hallway, their neon sign searing the information into my eyes. I start toward them, and reach them, too, in a few seconds. I am mildly surprised.
Only after I enter the ward do I realize that there was probably a desk, and a receptionist. Sure enough, I am only halfway across the floor when the neon doors bang open again. But it does not matter. I can see him. I am here.

     There is a chair, and I fall into it.

     The layman would never mistake us for each other today; in fact, Leo is almost unrecognizable. Still, I know my brother. It does not matter what he looks like. Our bond goes much deeper. There are tubes all over the place, and his face is covered in bruises, one eye swollen shut. A strip of hair has been shaved away on his left temple, and in its place lies an ominous line of stitches. His beauty has been spoiled, but it will return with time. He is alive, so he is beautiful.

     A man approaches me, a wary look in his eyes. He wears a blue smock and mask, and is holding out a matching set to me. I take the mask and strap it on, but ignore the smock—undignified, and unnecessary. The man is short, perhaps 5’7”, and I take pride in the wary look. You should be wary. Beware. You should. I grace him with my sweetest smile. I am dangerous. Beware.
     “Sir, I understand your worry, but—“ I touch his arm, cutting him off.
     “No. No, you do not.” The smile is slipping. I do not have time for this nurse right now. Right now, I am dying. And I need to be here, right here, until I am all right again.
     “Sir, please. If you would let me explain?” Should I?
     “Please do.”
     “I just need parental notification. If you could--?”

         My phone is already in my hand. My mother is in class, but she will pick up. Today being today, and me being me, she will be expecting this call.
        “Remy?” Her voice is tired, scratchy. She has been crying.
        “Mom. I am at the hospital.” She sighs. “I need you to tell this nice man that I may stay.” He takes the phone, holds it to his ear, frowns, nods. Hands it back to me.
        “Visiting hours are from eight to four.” I nod absently, hours do not affect me. I have no intention of leaving.
        “And sir, if you don’t follow the visiting regulations, we’ll need to ask you to leave.” Follow your rules? Fine. But they can hardly expect a perfect little child of me. I am a mother bear, and Leo is my cub. They have already come between us too often for my liking.
Besides, you cannot hurt me. I am already dying.

     I look over at Leo, once we are alone, and examine him. He is broken, but now that I am here, he will mend, I am sure of it. I take his hand. Touch-- touch is vital. We must always be in touch.

     I am here. That is what it says.