The pace of the room is like the ebb and flow of the tides, visitors swaying in and out, a rhythm choreographed by the strict yet compassionate nursing staff. The coming and going feels like the pulse of the city itself--every entrance and exit marks a new surge of energy, of stories and shared glances, all swirling around the central fact that, well, I'm still here.
The door opens, yet again, and through it walks Bulwark, his exposed patches of skin glinting in the light between his high-visibility equipment. His entrance would've been comical if not for the awed hush that follows him. Like a hero straight out of the comics, with a jaw chiseled enough to cut glass, Bulwark offers a too-wide grin that could light up a room, or blind you, depending on where you're standing. "Samantha Small, as I live and breathe," he booms, his voice a deep baritone that vibrates against the walls.
My family shuffles, accommodating space for this larger-than-life figure--Dad giving a nod of respect, Mom clasping her hands in what I guess is an excited apprehension, and Pop-Pop Moe just looking nonplussed. "Nice of you to drop by, Mr. Bulwark," I manage, words squeezed out between trying not to laugh at the absurdity of a superhero standing by my hospital bed.
He gives me a firm yet gentle pat on the shoulder, mindful of his own strength. "I would not miss it for the world, young one. You gave us all quite the scare." His eyes glint with a genuine kind of pride, one I can't help but respond to with a small, self-conscious smile. "My apologies for taking so long to visit. It's been quite busy, in some aspects, as you could imagine."
Abby's eyebrow raises so high it might escape her forehead, but she reins it in, her mouth quirking into a smile. "Definitely beats the regular hospital visits," she quips as Bulwark laughs, a sound like rolling thunder.
No sooner has Bulwark said his piece than a knock heralds the arrival of Spindle--his appearance the polar opposite of Bulwark's stoicism, a whirlwind of teenage energy with a belt that has grown a steadily developing array of gadgets. "Heya, Sam," he greets with a lopsided, kind of stupid looking grin. I wouldn't expect anything else. "Brought you something to stave off the boredom." From a satchel slung over his shoulder, he produces a handheld game console.
"Well, I expect to be out here soon, but I appreciate the gesture," I reply, ruffling his hair. He seems to appreciate the gesture in return.
The parade of superheroes continues with Multiplex, who acknowledges my presence and then retreats quietly to the hallway. I've always got the distinct impression that, ironically, crowds are not his forte.
A soft stir catches my attention, and I see Jordan sidling in, Alex in tow. Jordan's hair looks freshly dyed, several shades darker black than I'm used to, and a lopsided grin stretches across their features. My birthday present from them is a USB cart, with a label saying 'DO NOT WATCH AROUND OTHER PEOPLE'. I am kind of dreading the contents, but I put it on the steadily growing pile of presents and continue with my camaraderie.
The afternoon turns into a mosaic of greetings and laughter, snatches of conversation peeling away to silence as each of my friends from middle school arrive. Tasha, always the mother hen, clucks over my well-being, fussing in a way that should be annoying but feels endearing instead. Jenna drifts in with her usual air of distraction, handing me a sketchbook filled with her latest art--images that seem to pull the very essence of a subject onto the page. Marcus's quips are sharp as ever, testing my reflexes, a shadow-boxing match made of words. Lilly is quiet but her hug is worth a thousand words, and Kate's bluntness washes over me like a much-needed reality check.
Each of their presences are waves in the sea of the day--some overlapping, some pulling back, leaving behind remnants that settle in my heart, anchoring me to the life outside these walls.
The arrival of the Young Defenders is like a spark igniting the air. According to Puppeteer, not everyone could make it, away on patrols or other missions, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless. My family members, sans Camilla and Pop-Pop Moe, who had to retire to greener pastures, know of them only as 'friends from school', and we speak in silly code to get around the whole matters-of-municipal-security thing. Crossroads, Blink, and Gossamer join her. Playback, Rampart, and Gale, all busy.
I try not to think about it too hard, and fail miserably.
I nod, attempting to look hopeful, despite the weight in my chest, the slow gnaw of worry for a specific missing presence. Where's Jamila? Surely she's heard by now? I keep glancing at the door every time it opens, the hope that it's her flickering to life and dying, over and over, like a faulty neon sign.
Mom seems to catch onto my silent longing, her empathetic gaze knowing as she leans in close. "She'll come, sweetheart. Jamila wouldn't miss this," Mom says softly, her optimism as assuring as it is a gentle reminder not to lose hope.
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But for all the superheroes and middle school friends, the afternoon feels somehow incomplete, a narrative missing its closing chapter. Each time the door swings open, there's that split second of breath-held anticipation, followed by the gentle deflation of reality as Jamila fails to appear. It's the unspoken question, the echo after the laughter, the shadow in a room filled with light.
Yet I cannot bring myself to voice it, to make it real. I smile and laugh, throw quips and embrace the fragments of life offered to me, all while part of me treads water in the still depths of waiting.
As the light outside my window wanes, signaling the wistful end to the cavalcade of visitors, my hospital room becomes a quieter place--a sanctuary for the remnants of the day. Mom and Dad are there, still my ever-present rocks, anchoring me to a world of normalcy even as the extraordinary brushes up against us.
It's in the midst of the doctor's visit, as the weariness of the hours settles upon us, that the door opens yet again. The figure that steps through is at once foreign and intimately known, draped in shades of night with eyes that have always seemed to hold galaxies. Sorry. I can't help but think like a romance novel around her. Jamila. She hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat in the doorway, eyes scanning the room. "Sorry, am I interrupting?" she asks, her voice soft.
Her entry isn't loud or disruptive--it's the kind of pause that fills the spaces between beats in a song, the held breath before a storm. There's a silent exchange--a passing of the baton, as the doctor gives a nod and my parents step back, allowing this final guest her space. I am so in love with this girl. No matter how awkward or tense it gets. All I need to do is look at her face again and I know.
"No, no, you're just in time," the doctor says, turning a warm smile to Jamila before directing his attention back to us. "As for the news, well, I think it will make for a pleasant birthday present. Samantha, your tests are looking great. We're happy to say you can go home tomorrow."
The room breathes with me, as if every corner of it exhales in relief. My parents' eyes gleam, mirroring the good news with twin sparks of joy. Dad's hand finds mine under the blanket, giving it a squeeze as he declares, "That's not all, Sam. The house--our house--it's ready. We'll be going home-home."
Surrounded by white walls and the antiseptic scent that's become far too familiar, I feel a flicker of the life I knew, a life that's been on hold. A life with friends, family, school… a life with Jamila, maybe.
She steps forward, bringing with her a fragrance that's a whisper of rebellion against the sterile environment--a subtle hint of jasmine undercut with something richer, like leather-bound books and the promise of rain. In her hands, she carries a gift, an offering wrapped in midnight hues, speckled with silver that emulates the night sky she's always reminded me of. I need to stop reading all the books my Mom sends me because they're poisoning my inner monologue.
Jamila looks at me, really looks at me, and there's a hesitance in her gaze, the trembling edge of a storm not quite ready to break. "Happy birthday, Sam," she murmurs, a soft warmth under the tension, as she places the box beside me.
I meet her gaze, reaching out with a hand still pale against the hospital sheets. There's a thousand words in our touch, a conversation not quite held, questions and affirmations swirling in the space between us. "Thank you. I've missed you, Jami," I admit, voice barely more than a whisper.
Our fingers entwine, and the tension ebbs slightly--enough to breathe, enough to remember we're here together, now. "I've missed you too," she confesses, her thumb brushing over my knuckles.
The room seems to understand, granting us the grace of a shared silence. My parents, somewhat respectful of my autonomy, give us the space we need. They exchange looks that carry both worry and happiness, like they know this moment is as healing as any medicine. "I know this is probably a lot for Sam at once, so if you'd like, Mr., Mrs. Small, we can step outside and discuss discharge plans?" The doctor says, gently gesturing to the door.
"I think that'd be just right," my Dad replies, and they vacate the premises, shutting the door behind them.
Opening the box, my breath catches. It's a pendant, simple and wrought in a way that echoes the lines of a Gale-force wind. Ha ha. I throw it around my neck, where it clatters softly against the shark tooth pendant I've been wearing for what feels like aeons.
"Jamila, it's beautiful," I say, genuine awe coloring my tone. The pendant glints as I lift it, catching the last rays of the sun dying outside the window, promising a tomorrow that's brighter than today.
"Yeah, well," she starts, an almost-smile dancing on her lips, "I figured I'd get you something that wouldn't cut your gums."
The bubble of laughter that escapes me feels like the release of a pressure valve. "A very thoughtful consideration. Would've been a nightmare to explain that one to the dentist. Wait, are you implying I bite rocks?"
"Do you not?" she responds, chuckling through her teeth.
There's more I want to say--thanks, apologies, words of deeper feelings--but they'll wait. For now, we sit, side by side, not quite ready to dissect the complexities of our relationship. But the moment is ours, simple and cherished.
As the minutes tick away and visiting hours draw to a close, the sense of something gained--restored and yet wholly new--fills the room. My family, my team, my friends… they've all come and gone, leaving behind small pieces of themselves inside of me like teeth in my intestines. Parts that take root, grow out, and one day will emerge from my skin as a weapon against evil. Or. Something like that.
And with Jamila here, her dark attire almost absorbing the light of the white hospital blankets, it's clear that all has been righted in my little corner of the world, at least for today.
"All's well, then," I breathe out my hand squeezing Jamila's.
"All's well," she echoes, and it feels like starting over.
END INTERMISSION 4.5: AMNION