Copyright© 2024 by Rottweiler

A Deja Vu Story (1)

Deja Vu - Part One: Rock Bottom

by Rottweiler

Description: 15 y/o Peter suffers a horrific accident that leaves him crippled in a wheelchair. After a short lifetime of bad decisions, he meets his untimely end... Only to wake up right at the time of the accident once more. Imagine having the chance to relive your past with a nearly full recollection of your prior life. What would you change?

Tags: Some Sex, Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Teenagers, Blackmail, Coercion, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Rags To Riches, Restart, DoOver, Amputee

Published: 2024-01-22

Updated: 2024-10-22

Status: To Be Continued...

Size: 84,967 Words

Parts: This file contains 21 Parts

Prologue

Fifteen-year-old Peter Shipley first remembered waking up in the hospital after the A&W celebration party for winning the BB division football district title. He was the starting quarterback and enjoyed praise for his role in the win. He was athletic, cunning, and sly to the defending team (Kent HS). He ran the ball three times across the goal line, emerging unscathed to the applause and cheers of his team, school, and parents, who braved the cold for the final away game. It was Friday, October 27th, 1989, and Halloween was approaching.

As the youngest Junior at Southern Auburn High School, Pete was an unprecedented overachiever who enjoyed the holiday parties and recognized he’d soon be one of the youngest freshmen at UW. He maintained the highest marks in his overloaded curriculum and worked as hard as everyone else on the field and during practice. His only regret was attending a B-rated school where athletes were less likely to attract the attention of talent scouts.

Then—in the blink of an eye, it was all gone. One moment, he was jogging along the dark road towards home, less than a mile from the popular restaurant—and the next, tragedy. He opened one eye to the harsh brightness of the surgical lights. Voices were loud and disjointed. His entire body hurt, and he tried to cry out, gagging and coughing harshly, causing incredible pain to spasm through his neck and head. The voices faded away as his vision blurred and then darkened.

Days later, he was awake enough to learn what happened. While jogging home from the celebration, a drunk driver hit him with a Johnson Controls company car. The news spread widely, and lawyers lined up to sue the company for a large settlement on his behalf. Only his mom, Janet, and sister, Veronica, visited regularly. His dad was too busy or drunk, showing how the once proud father couldn’t be bothered with his now burdensome son. Even classmates and friends avoided him after the first week in the hospital. The flowers, balloons, stuffed animals, and cards in his room barely masked the solitude.

Peter knew right away he’d lost the use of his legs. Even if he wasn’t paraplegic from the spinal injury, his legs were too damaged even remotely to rehabilitate. An infection took his right lower leg, and the ‘pressor’ agents that kept him alive initially cost him his left toes and eventually his entire foot. When his girlfriend Brittney visited during his second week, he sensed her trepidation. Her friends whispered in the hallway, offering moral support. She picked a terrible time to visit—he’d just had both feet amputated and was heavily medicated, in denial about the loss. Her fear and hesitation only angered him, and he lashed out. He didn’t want pity while he wallowed in his own. She fled in tears, his harsh words following her into the hallway.

Nearly two months passed before he was transferred to a skilled nursing facility for rehab, and three more months before he returned to a broken home. Only his mother, Janet, awaited him, and not happily. His father, Robert, had left months earlier, and Veronica moved to Pullman for her studies at WSU. His room was on the second floor, but due to his condition, he had to sleep in the living room. Knowing the burden on his mom, he focused on rehab and eventually was able to care for himself under certain conditions. With his wheelchair, he could cook using the microwave. A ramp at the kitchen sink let him do dishes, and they used part of the settlement money for a front-loading washer, making laundry possible.

Initially, his mother thought they could live on the nearly half-million-dollar cash settlement for ages, so she balked at returning to work. Peter coaxed her into sitting down to explain their expenses and the depletion of their projected savings. This resulted in a double-edged sword effect: she returned to work as an office assistant for their family dentist but became miserly about spending money.

Completing high school from home became his priority, and the district worked with him. Due to the nature of his disability, he was absolved of all athletic requirements and could focus on his academic studies. Even though he missed two semesters, he was able to catch up and surpass the academic calendar—finishing his senior curriculum in under four months after the school year started.

Despite his efforts, he couldn’t convince his mother to let him buy a new personal computer. He tried logic, assuring her it would soon be as common as television—and valuable for his college studies. When she refused, he trekked to the city Library, spending hours using the new desktop units and the expanded ARPANET email and intranet communications protocols. He reviewed MAC World and PC Magazines, watched the cyber world blossom, and taught himself original coding in BASIC, DOS, and Turbo C.

Without the athletic scholarship he anticipated, his university dreams vanished. The few scholarships he applied for offered little toward the tuition fees. She refused to budge when he pleaded with his mom about his future, insisting they’d manage on the settlement and her meager income. When she learned of a night course to become a certified dental assistant, she felt no qualms about funding and completing the program. Eventually, she commanded a higher wage and enjoyed a sense of accomplishment.

Her celebrated achievement led to her undoing when she caught a deadly hemorrhagic fever from a patient from South Korea. Her symptoms were missed until it was too late. Her death made the medical community more vigilant but was tragic for Peter, 17, who became a ward of the state. His sister refused to be his guardian, and the house was auctioned to cover his care. Peter moved to a group home until he sued for autonomy at 21.

He lived alone without friends or family in a dilapidated studio apartment paid for by his settlement with Johnson Controls. He worked as a clerical assistant for Puget Sound Power & Light Co., utilizing his computer skills. In three months, he saved enough for his own IBM 486 DX personal computer. He saved up for a CD-ROM and upgraded to Windows 95.

He stayed after his company merged with Washington Energy Co. to become Puget Sound Energy, and he advanced to IT Project Manager.

At 25, he started dating a coworker and later married her. Originally from Taiwan, Margaret Yu moved to Washington State as a student and extended her visa with a work permit from PSE. She needed to become a citizen or marry an American to stay permanently. Seeing him as an easy target, she used her charms to win over the introverted supervisor. She asked him to teach her the company’s programming language, and he agreed to after-hours meetings. They met at her place, and sometimes, he met her in the local public library, where they could use the public computers to access the company’s mainframe. Never once did he invite her to his studio apartment, which was set up for his disability.

As they became comfortable at work and as a couple, he lowered his emotional defenses. It took time for her to convince him he could fulfill her physical needs. When they first became intimate, he allowed her to fellate him after they bathed together. Lying on her large bed, she sucked his penis to hardness and then mounted him timidly, unused to his size. When he pushed up against her, she cried out as he stretched her. Her experience was less pleasurable than his, and he came in minutes, ejaculating up into her as she held herself steady atop him.

Later, snuggling in bed, she convinced herself her choice was worth it if she stayed focused on the prize. He marveled that such an exotic beauty could have feelings for him, let alone the budding emotion they shared. Her posh and feminine apartment had wheelchair access, making it easy for him to get around. So, he left his flat without hesitation when they decided to move in together. As a bachelor, he lived minimally, spending on computers and gaming. His medical expenses were high as no insurance covered his preexisting conditions. When he met Margaret, he was a broke geek, living paycheck to paycheck.

Their marriage wasn’t spontaneous but a result of hours of pillow talk and planning. She confessed her desire for citizenship and shared her dream of moving her parents and brother from Taiwan to America. He gave her ulterior goals little thought as he stressed over saving for an engagement ring. He gave up gaming time to work extra hours to pad his paycheck. Even with a sizeable downpayment, he applied for financing from the Jeweler to procure the band she wanted.

At her urging, they flew to Vegas and married quickly and cheaply. Their honeymoon was rushed and filled with sex. When not having sex, they hit the casino or buffet. A week later, they were back in Renton, returning to work. She was prudent with money, saving to relocate her family and sharing little with him beyond a portion in their joint account. He didn’t pry into her finances. She spoke to her family in Mandarin, keeping him out of the loop. Secretly, she went on birth control despite discussing kids with him.

They agreed that a bigger home was necessary to accommodate her distant family. The mortgage for the 3000 sq. ft. multilevel home in Auburn stretched his finances. He aimed for an upper management position, but the IT department was still in its infancy and not seen as vital as it would be one day. His only option was to work more hours and get as much overtime as possible. This cut into his time with his wife, and he started reverting to his introverted bachelor mindset. Unlike her old apartment, the house wasn’t retrofitted for wheelchair access, limiting him to the ground floor and basement unless he crawled up the stairs. Due to his long hours, he began sleeping in the small room off the kitchen to avoid disturbing his wife.

The house became a busy depot overnight when her parents and brother arrived. At first, they seemed aloof to him, and it galled him to feel like a lesser man in his own home. Eventually, Margaret soothed his ego by assuring him that it was just the Chinese way and that they meant no harm. Still, he retreated further and kept to himself in the sanctity of his tiny room. By their first anniversary, it felt like he merely existed to provide a roof over their heads. He rarely saw Margaret, even at work, and when she did engage with him, she seemed emotionally vacant.

The house was often full of Asian guests who behaved as if they lived there and were entitled to his hospitality. For months, he resented their arrogance and vowed to discuss it with Margaret. That encounter never happened, and he sank into a state of bitter self-pity and depression.

At 27, Peter turned to alcohol to escape feelings of defeat and regret. He regularly used the public transit system to commute and started stopping before his home and swing stopping at a pub before heading home, unnoticed by his family. His drinking eventually affected his work, prompting attention from his wife, Margaret, who was neither caring nor supportive. After receiving a ‘final warning’ and an offer for rehab, she dropped him off at a treatment facility, telling him not to come back unless he got sober.

His rehab failed, and he left with a smoking habit. He stayed sober for three days before ending up in the ER for a meth overdose he couldn’t remember. By discharge, he was fired and locked out of his home. At the pub, he spent his cash and left with old rehab mates to a condemned apartment. Jamie and Franky coerced him into a plan to “score” more meth. Dealer Leon was known to frequent the area and cook with some of the transients in the building. While Peter squatted by the entrance, Jamie and Franky hid inside, waiting for the prearranged signal. When Peter signaled, they attacked Leon, stole his supply, and cooked and shot up on the spot.

When Peter awoke, he was surrounded by police, cuffed, and dragged to a squad car. He was booked into King County jail and charged as an accessory to manslaughter in Leon’s beating death. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to 13 years within a week. Walla Walla State Penitentiary was about as close to Hell as possible. It was worse for a cripple bound to a wheelchair. Pity was the last thing he expected or received at ‘the Walls”. After suffering torments at the hands of other inmates and nearly dying twice, he learned to avoid exposure by spending time in the infirmary as a volunteer or at the library.

He survived four years before encountering the newest and most notorious inmate—recently convicted Gary Ridgeway ‘The Green River Killer’. After meeting and talking with him several times, he ostracized himself. On Christmas Eve 2004, Peter was set upon by a gang of vengeful gangbangers and severely beaten. When found unresponsive in the showers, he was rushed to Providence St. Mary’s Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

Chapter 1: Have I Been Here Before?

Stretching his legs felt good to Peter after leaving the A&W and the celebration.

He needed the run; his legs had cramped after the season’s final game, where he ran for three touchdowns and threw ten completions with three scoring drives. “Too bad the UW scouts missed that,” he grumbled, jogging through the early dusk.

The fog rose from the Duwamish River beside the road, and he shuddered, recalling the recent discovery of young women’s bodies, victims of the ‘Green River Killer,’ as the press had named him. He remembered last Spring’s hysteria when everyone thought the killer lived nearby and shivered. Zipping up his letterman jacket, he slowed at the bridge over the infamous river, briefly regretting not accepting a ride home, but the stiffness in his thighs and calves needed the exercise.

A dedicated runner, he usually jogged five miles on weekends unless his parents were tripping out over the latest body dump. His house was only a mile from the A&W, and the road was flat. Ten minutes of exercise, maybe a bit more considering the game, and he’d be home with just enough of a workout to keep his legs from cramping again.

Peter was living life to the fullest. He was breezing through Junior Year with a 4.0 average, taking AP classes and Pre-Calculus, normally a senior course. He had dodged the restriction by enrolling in the district’s Pre-College Pathway (PCP) program, and next fall, he’d be able to commute between high school and the Green River Community College.

His plans for the future were progressing at least as well as he’d hoped. After graduation from the PCP, he’d have an associate’s degree in science and a diploma. With luck, his coach would get UW’s scouts to review his tapes for an athletic scholarship to complement the academic one he intended to apply for. They lived well on his dad’s executive salary at Weyerhauser. As for his stay-at-home mom, she rarely attended games or practices. His dad had always pushed Peter to apply himself more and work harder while offering only encouragement to his sister Veronica. She now had a full-ride scholarship at WSU, while Peter worked part-time at The Old Cannery House furniture store in Sumner. He hoped to work full-time during summer break, intending to earn enough for a new Sharp 80486 computer with Windows 3.0.

A car racing up behind him interrupted his reflections. He felt the faint vibrations and heard the engine noise as the vehicle approached. He saw his shadow stretch out before him from the bright headlights. He had just left the bridge with its pedestrian-protected median, and now he moved farther inside the white line marking the left shoulder.

Despite the noise, he felt no concern. After all, he was running into traffic and faced no oncoming cars—but then he heard the bone-chilling screech of tires skidding on asphalt. He barely had time to open his mouth in surprise during the split second before the white van plowed into him.

His last thought before the devastating impact was the feeling of absolute certainty that he’d been here before.

---

When he became aware, he couldn’t understand what was happening or why he was in so much pain. The lights were painfully bright, and he couldn’t see from one eye. Beeps, alarms, and urgent voices filled the air. Several hands lifted him roughly and dumped him onto another surface. The lights got brighter, and when he tried to cry out, he gagged on something in his throat. He felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his side, and more voices yelled as he felt himself being moved. The wheels under him bumped, and he wondered if he was on a wagon going somewhere, and for some reason, he didn’t understand. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and in agony, and then the dark ring around his vision closed in.

He came awake to brighter lights and blurry figures, but calmer voices surrounded him this time. He was in an operating room that much he understood, and déjà vu once again crept into his confused mind. How am I reliving this nightmare?

He lay in the hospital bed, understanding that he was recovering from multiple life-saving surgeries. Metal frames suspended by ropes fixed both his femurs and his right arm in position, and metal rods protruded from his hip and pelvis. A plastic collar immobilized his neck, and a metal halo contraption supported his head, but worst of all was the chest tube inserted between his ribs to reinflate his lung and drain blood. Listening to what was being said by the operating room crew, he realized that a tension pneumothorax, whatever that was, had nearly killed him before EMTs relieved the pressure with a needle. Despite the heavy drugs they had used, everything hurt, and he couldn’t even pee without a catheter.

He remembered the accident and the events in the operating room, which had happened a few days ago. He woke up in the ICU, head lowered to stabilize his blood pressure due to internal bleeding, and while he felt uncomfortable, the stabbing pains were gone.

Now he was in bed with his head elevated 90 degrees, unable to move anything other than his left arm, which was in a cast from wrist to elbow. Scanning his eyes as far to the side as possible, he saw that the room’s front wall was decorated with hand-drawn posters and get-well cards from almost everyone in town. Tables placed wherever there was room held flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals. He vaguely remembered a few visits from classmates, and there had been some from adults he didn’t recognize.

His mom spent hours with him daily the first week, but that had since declined. Now, she visited only once or twice a week. He remembered seeing his sister once and a nurse told him that his dad had visited twice while he was asleep. But when the lawyers arrived, he began feeling odd notions and perceptions like distant memories. How could he know and anticipate what they were telling him, and why they wanted to represent him in a lawsuit?

His TV was never on, but someone had brought in a portable CD player and FM radio, and he remembered the news breaks and the background songs as if he could predict them. Several attorneys had left business cards on his bedside table, but it was impossible to check them without causing pain to lance through his hips, back, and chest.

His girlfriend, Brittney, had visited on a Wednesday during his second week in the hospital. She peeked nervously through his door and saw he was awake. He met her eyes and knew she had moved on but wasn’t sure how to break it to him. He heard whispered voices of other girls she brought along for moral support. They had stayed in the hallway as she stepped into his room. There was another moment of clarity, in which he recalled losing his shit on her and sending her away in tears. He sighed, having no desire to cause or relive that drama. He was resigned, and her abandonment felt inconsequential.

“Hi, Peter,” she said softly as she moved closer to his bed. He could open both eyes again, but the heavy skull brace restricted his vision to what was directly in front of him with only limited periphery.

“Hi,” he replied harshly.

“You look terrible.”

He grunted, “I feel worse.”

“I’m really sorry that this happened to you,” she murmured. “The whole school was in shock.”

“Look ... Brit,” he started.

“I can’t believe you survived! They said you died on the table—”

“Brit!” he tried again, and she stopped talking to face him. “I know why you’re here,” he said softly. “I get it. I’ll be crippled for life, and that isn’t what you signed up for when we started dating.”

She shook her head and tried to object, but he waved his left hand to stop her. “It’s okay,” he stated firmly. He felt no anger, only rational acceptance. He felt older than his fifteen years and much older than the girl beside him. “If it helps, tell them I broke it off, okay?” He met her eyes and saw tears threatening to spill. “Tell them I’m wallowing in self-pity and lashed out at you, screaming and bawling, and threw you out of my room.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she looked down at her feet and anxiously chewed her lips as she considered his words. She sniffed and touched his cheek, quickly snatching her hand away from the brief contact, and without another word, she turned and left. The door closed softly behind her.

Peter considered how different the encounter had been from his odd recollection of a previous memory. It felt like watching an old movie about himself but played by a much older actor. He recalled some of the events clearly but had no real memory of others; he just had a vague feeling that something was missing.

An unexpected event occurred a few hours after his ‘second’ breakup with Brittney. He rested with his eyes closed, trying to anticipate what would happen next, when a familiar voice invaded his introspection. “Hey, Ship!” a young masculine voice called from his doorway.

He opened his eyes to see his best friend, Alan Shoemaker, standing nervously in the doorway. “Are you still in a coma?” he asked.

Alan was a year older but still a sophomore, although as brilliant as any junior in Peter’s grade. His Korean mother had refused to let him skip a grade. At five feet, ten inches, he stood eye-to-eye with Peter but carried more weight around his midsection. His stocky build, sharp mind, soft Asian features, and thick Coke bottle glasses identified him as a geek.

“Hey, Al,” Peter replied evenly. “Come in. I have a small break in my busy schedule to spare a few moments.” He pronounced it ‘Shed-jewel’ with a mock accent to lighten the mood.

Alan grinned and held the door open. “I didn’t come alone,” he said, stepping aside for another friendly figure to enter. Kathy Parsons was another of his ‘nerdy’ friends, but a senior and possibly as smart as Peter. She’d graduate this year at 17 as senior class Valedictorian.

Physically, she was taller than either by an inch, with a full figure that included pronounced cleavage and hips. Comfortable and self-confident, she neither flaunted her feminine charms nor tried to obscure them. Her mahogany-toned skin and jet-black hair, which she kept shoulder-length, revealed her Puyallup Indian heritage.

She stood before Peter wearing cut-off shorts, flip-flops, and a Judas Priest Tour shirt. They had grown up together, and the two boys had become acutely aware of her allure once puberty blessed her with ‘girl parts.’ Yet they still treated her as a ‘bruh’, and if they aspired for something more, they stifled the urge out of respect.

The pair lifted his spirits as soon as they entered. At first, he thought it was because he craved companionship, but then he realized this visit deviated from his ‘expected outcomes.’ It was unexpected, unpredictable, and much more pleasant than Brit’s.

They seemed hesitant as they stood on either side of his bed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he told them soberly. “David Hasselhoff ain’t got nothing on the new Peter Shipley.” He tried not to wince as he chuckled at their disbelief.

They seemed relieved by his candor, and Alan slowly shook his head. “No, dude,” he said, mocking severity. “You look like a used-up, crash-test dummy tossed in a dumpster and set on fire.”

Kathy gasped at his harsh analogy, but Peter laughed hard enough to cause a painful groan. “Oh God!” he gasped. “Don’t make me laugh anymore, please. That hurt!”

“Sorry!” his nerdy friend replied contritely. Then his eyes brightened. “Hey, I brought you the latest MAC World and PC Mag issues.” He held up the magazines.

Peter gaped back at him through his black eyes. “Oh great! Thanks, man,” he snorted. “How do you expect me to read a magazine when I’m strung up like a puppet?”

Alan looked stricken by his words but bristled when Kathy giggled. “Maybe you can hold it and turn the pages for him, Shoe,” she quipped.

“Hardy-fucking-har,” he grumbled, “A-holes.”

“Thanks for the magazines,” Peter said. “I can read them if my nurse raises my knees.”

“You’ll love this issue!” Alan replied eagerly. “It’s all about the 80486s and the new Pentium processor coming out. Hey, did you know why Intel is calling it the ‘Pentium’ instead of the 586?” He began rambling, oblivious to Kathy’s smirk, “It’s because—”

Something shifted in Peter’s mind as he struggled with the overlapping memories plaguing his present. His expression must have reflected his confusion because both his friends asked if he was okay at the same time.

“Huh?” He shook it off. “Uh yeah, just have these ‘spells’ now and then,” he explained as he recalled a distant memory of his mom and him meeting a stern-faced lawyer at his bedside—some German-sounding name. “Hey, Kat?” he said, looking her way. “Can you grab those business cards on the table beside you?”

She picked up four cards, examining them curiously.

“Can you read the names?” he asked.

“Let’s see,” she said. “Olsen, Bradley, Attorney at Law,”

“Toss it. Next?”

“Swartz and Zegler.” That was the guy. He remembered the well-dressed lawyer who stood at his bedside, talked over him to his mom, and how they agreed to his service terms. “Toss it. Next?”

“Marconi, Zales & Kraft.”

“Nope. What’s the last one?”

“Bales, Scott W.,” she said, holding it up for him to read.

“That’s the one!” Peter said. “Can you do me another favor? Use that phone to call him and hold the receiver so I can talk to him?”

She seemed genuinely pleased to help him as she took the phone and punched the numbers into it before holding it to her ear. Once it rang, she placed it close to his face. “This is Scott,” a voice said near his ear. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, Mr. Bales. This is Peter Shipley, the kid who got run over a couple of weeks ago,” he replied.

“Oh yes! Mr. Shipley. I’m happy to hear from you,” the lawyer replied excitedly. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m getting better every day. Is there any way I could meet with you soon?” he asked.

“Sure, I can be there in under an hour. Have you and your mother decided to proceed with litigation?”

Peter sensed his eagerness. “Yeah ... um, I was hoping to speak with you about that before discussing it with her. I understand I’m a minor, but I want to clarify some things first. Is that okay?”

He sensed the sudden hesitation in the man’s voice. “Um. I can try to answer any questions you have. This will have to be a casual visit,” he said. “Without a parent...”

“Great! Thanks. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“Sure thing. Bye.” Peter nodded to Kathy, who placed the receiver back on the table. “Thanks.” She smiled brightly and remained close.

“What was that about?” Alan asked.

“I need to set the narrative for this lawsuit so I don’t get screwed,” Peter replied. “I need a computer more than ever since I won’t get around on my feet anymore.” The surgeons had removed his right leg below the knee. His left foot was bandaged, but he saw the blackened toes during dressing changes and knew it would also be amputated soon.

After his comment, there was an awkward silence, and he regretted making his friends uncomfortable. “Look, guys, that was just gallows humor,” he assured them. “I appreciate your visit, and thanks for the magazines.” He yawned, feigning exhaustion. “Can you come back soon? Like tomorrow?”

They took the hint and agreed quickly. They promised to return the next afternoon and left him to his thoughts. He considered the nagging memories of a different past and wondered if he could reshape events for a better outcome. He had nothing to lose by trying.

---

“Mr. Bales, I love my mom, but I don’t think her head is in the right place with everything happening,” Peter said as the door closed behind the nurse who came in to check him and helped him sip water from a straw.

Scott Bales, Attorney at Law, pulled the chair closer. He was 27 and had passed the State Bar less than two years before. While proclaiming his ‘independence’, he worked under the partnership and guidance of his father, who was cutting back his work time to travel more. Scott stood six feet, four inches tall, and sported an athletic build. His wild red hair defied grooming attempts, and his clean-shaven face made him appear younger.

Peter liked him from the start.

Scott cleared his throat to dispel the awkward silence. “I’m sorry to hear about your dad abandoning you,” he offered as he sat straight. “I know Coran Wise, and he will serve your mom well during the divorce. We went to Law School together at Gonzaga.”

“My dad is an asshole!” Peter growled. “I hope she takes him for everything she can get. It’s not like he can’t afford it! He’s an executive with Weyerhaeuser.” His voice started to fail, and Scott instinctively grabbed the water glass with the straw.

Peter nodded appreciatively as he took another long sip. “Thank you,” he gasped after swallowing. “My mom used to work for our family dentist as a secretary and scheduler, but I don’t want her feeling like she has to return to work because of me.”

The young attorney nodded. Something about the injured young man struck him as different. He wasn’t just lying there whining about his injuries and screaming for revenge. He seemed mature for his age and more concerned for his mom’s welfare than his own.

“She’ll keep the house, and he’ll pay her alimony for groceries and bills,” he continued. “He’ll also pay child support for me for the next three years.”

“Hmm, I’d bet that with your disability, he will provide monetary support into your 20’s,” Scott replied.

Peter nodded. “I called you because I wanted to discuss the lawsuit. Thanks to the alimony and child support, we’ll be financially fine from the get-go, so I wanted to ask how you’d pursue Johnson Controls for damages and liability. Will they settle quickly out of court or fight it, and how will any award be distributed to us?”

This wasn’t the conversation Scott had expected from a fifteen-year-old! He wondered at the boy’s calm and educated words. “I don’t doubt they’ll settle quickly,” he replied confidently, “I’d be surprised if they weren’t waiting in the parking lot to speak with you. This is all the more reason for you to get an attorney quickly to shelter you from the nonsense they promise and don’t deliver.”

“I’ll talk to Mom after this meeting,” Peter replied. “For now, you can be assured we will use you. Your fees would come from the settlement, correct?”

Scott nodded as the statement sunk in. “Yes, of course. It would be immoral and unethical to expect you and your mother to pay retainer fees at a time like this.” He paused and leaned forward. “Peter ... may I call you Peter?” he asked, receiving a nod. “I get the impression you’re more versed in these proceedings than typical for someone your age.”

“I hate to sound boastful, but I am well ahead of my peers in education,” the boy replied, trying to sound like a teenager. “I’m already a junior in high school, and my entire curriculum is—was—AP studies.”

The attorney considered this. He was impressed with his client’s intellect but felt there was more to the lad. “Tell me what you expect—or hope— to come from this,” he prompted.

Peter carefully considered his next words, knowing they’d likely decide the litigation outcome. “Knowing we’ll be okay for now, I’m thinking about my future,” he hesitated, “or rather ‘our’ future because one day I expect to take care of my mom instead of the other way around.”

Good answer. The attorney studied the boy curiously, “Go on.”

“Hypothetically, we ask for a lot of money,” he said, lifting his hand and pointing to the water pitcher. The lawyer stood and helped him drink. “I don’t know how much you’ll make, but assume we win a sizeable sum—say $750,000.”

Scott was doing mental calculations, considering the initial demands, negotiations, fees, court costs, and taxes. He quietly applauded the young man for his astuteness, nodding for him to continue.

“Since we don’t have to worry about the basics, I can think of a few immediate concerns for the upcoming negotiations,” Peter grimaced as he tried to shift to a less uncomfortable position. “I won’t be able to walk, so a couple of things will have to be done. I won’t be able to climb the stairs to my old room, so our living room needs to be retrofitted so I can deal with my handicap.”

This surprised the young attorney, who pulled a legal pad from his briefcase to take notes.

“Our house needs to be wheelchair accessible,” Peter continued, “with ramps and reachable countertops for self-sufficiency. I can’t think of everything right now, but I’ll need things to help me with cooking, bathing, and so forth, and Johnson Controls should provide them.”

He waited while the attorney wrote down his thoughts. “Peter,” Scott said, looking up from his pad. “Your mom will also need to transport you to your appointments. She will need a car, preferably a van that accommodates a wheelchair.”

He recognized the excited gleam in his eyes as he realized the truth. Peter was glad he had chosen this man as their attorney.

They spoke for more than an hour about his immediate future and goals. “I hoped to attend UW on a football scholarship, but that’s gone now,” he added without regret or self-pity. “I still hope to attend college but I’ll need a good computer.” He gestured at the magazine lying open on the bedside table. “I dog-eared the page with a model I’d kill for.”

Scott stood and reached for the PC Mag, thumbing through it. The Toshiba 80486 with the thin profile LCD monitor was a beauty. He nodded and made another note on his tablet. He glanced at the MAC World beneath it. “Are you into programming?”

“Yeah. Alan, Kat, and I dream of creating and selling PC games one day,” he replied. “You’ll meet them soon because we’re pretty tight. We’ve been working on a C-language program.”

“That’s impressive. You’re really into computers, it seems.”

“Oh yeah! They will propel us into the new millennium, and I intend to ride that rocket into the stratosphere!” He coughed painfully but declined more water. “Which brings up another topic I need your advice on.”

The young attorney had just put his notepad back into his briefcase and sat up. “Oh? What is that?”

“Instead of just getting a large sum of money that will just sit in a bank account earning crappy interest, I was hoping to invest a significant part.”

Scott had been about to leave, but now his interest was piqued. He settled back into the hard seat and asked, “What do you have in mind?”

“I want to buy stock in companies that are making breakthroughs in technology and computing. I’ll need to set up an online brokerage account to do that, but I will need an adult, someone like you, to help me set it up. After it’s established and funded, I intend to manage it myself.”

“Are you talking about a limited power of attorney?” Scott asked cautiously.

“Exactly! I know you’re gonna ask, so let me say my mom is the last person I can turn to ... well, next to my dad! If we can even find him—”

“Why is that?” Scott asked curiously. He already knew he’d agree because he sensed something impressive about the young man, so impressive that he wanted to watch over his progress.

“Mom is clueless about this,” Peter said, “and what I want to do goes against everything she knows or stands for. The church we attend is still in the dark ages regarding forward thinking and independence. “ He left the thought unfinished, but the lawyer understood precisely where he was coming from.

“Okay, so we set up an account with Charles Schwab, Fidelity, or Edward Jones, my father’s choice—”

“I was thinking about E-Trade,” Peter interrupted. “They are an online broker with cheaper commissions.”

Scott frowned at him. “You’re not planning on being free and loose with day trading, are you?”

“God, no!” Peter replied. Not yet, he thought. “I plan on buying companies like Microsoft, IBM, Intel, Apple, AMD, and that new database company Oracle.”

“Microsoft, eh? You know, my dad knows Paul Allen,” Scott said, thinking, “This kid has a head on his shoulders!”

“Can you get me his autograph?” Peter asked excitedly.

Chapter 2: Rehab is a Bitch!

“Mom, those parasites are only looking out for themselves! Don’t let them talk to you without a lawyer present!” Peter almost yelled at his mom later that afternoon.

“Honey, relax,” she replied, sounding cross. “First, I am an adult capable of talking to anyone I like, and second, I didn’t agree to anything. Third, you must stop worrying about this and let the grown-ups deal with it! You have to focus on healing your body and getting better. “ She held his water glass tightly and tried to get him to drink.

“Mom, stop!” he snapped angrily, regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry, I’m not thirsty right now. I know you’re doing the best with the cards we have been dealt. I love you and appreciate everything you’re doing.” He waited as she hesitantly put the pitcher back on the table. “Look, I just want to be a part of this, okay? I may be a kid, but I’m pretty smart. You always brag about that to the church ladies, right?”

Janet Shipley was 43 and carried herself like June Cleaver and Florence Henderson. She sniffed. “Boasting is a sin, rooted in pride.”

He smiled as she calmed herself. “So is gambling, but you still play Bingo every Saturday evening,” he snorted, then smiled, “It’s not a sin to be proud of your genius son,” he added, grinning as she rolled her eyes. She took his hand, and he squeezed it.

“You know what those nice men offered?” she asked excitedly. “They want to pay for all of your college education! Isn’t that wonderful, dear?”

He sighed. “Of course they did, Mom. And they should,” he muttered. “Did they mention how I’ll get there and back? Did they offer to pay for the prosthetic legs I will need? Are they willing to pay for my hospital time, whatever’s not covered by Dad’s insurance?” He knew immediately that he had gone over her head with his questions and saw the haunted look in her eyes as she realized he’d hit upon the fears keeping her awake at night.

He squeezed her hand once more. “Mom, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. I know you have, too, but you’re overwhelmed by everything. Just take a moment and listen to me, okay? Listen to me as an adult. Can you do that?”

She regarded her son lying in his bed with all the hardware, wires, tubes, and monitors, trying to see the handsome young man he had once been. Tears sprang to her eyes as she held his hand and nodded. “I’m listening, baby.”

“Good,” he replied warmly. “Now, first of all, we are going to be okay. I’ll get better and be able to take care of myself soon, so don’t worry. I also don’t want you to fret about returning to work to pay the bills.” He could tell by her expression that was precisely her concern. “Dad’ s an a-hole for just leaving you ... No!” he exclaimed as she gasped at his language. “I won’t apologize for how I feel about him! He is a jerk and will pay for what he’s done! You’ll get alimony for utilities and food. The house is paid for, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

She nodded and relaxed as he continued. “He will have to pay you child support as long as I live under your roof.” She started to argue, but he cut her off. “I know, in most cases, it’s until I turn eighteen, but he abandoned you right after I got hurt, and that won’t look good in the judge’s eyes when you divorce him.”

She nodded again. “Mr. Wise suggested that the other day when we met at his office.”

He squeezed her hand encouragingly. “See? Everything will turn out for the better. This deal with Johnson Controls has to be handled by lawyers, okay? They are trying to salvage their reputation. They only care about putting this to rest with minimal damage to their bottom line. They are not looking to make amends to me or us!”

“Now that’s not true...,” she started, but he held up his hand. “Mom..., you promised to listen.” She closed her mouth defensively and sat back. He could tell he had lost the momentum to win her over.

He sighed deeply and growled in frustration. She reached for his water glass again, and this time, he nodded, allowing her to help him drink.

He sighed again and decided to change tactics. “Look, Mom. I know you trust the church and see good in everything and everyone, believing God will help us in our time of need.” He gazed evenly at her, but she did not meet his eyes when he spoke. “But these people, this company, aren’t the good guys. Imagine discussing the accident with your church friends as if it wasn’t me! You wouldn’t defend them! A responsible company doesn’t let employees drive drunk on company business, in company cars.” He saw that she meekly nodded agreement and went on. “They are 100% responsible and liable for all of this. And that is why we need an attorney to protect us, not let them control things!”

She sighed. The whole thing was too much for her, and she wanted to go back to the way things had been before the accident, even with her troubled marriage. “I know you’re right, sweetheart,” she sighed, “but I don’t think we can afford to pay for one right now.” She leaned forward and placed her face into her hands. “I don’t know how we’ll make it through until the divorce ends and the settlement kicks in.”

Peter tried to reach her but couldn’t. “Mom, look at me! Sit up and look at me. I need you to hear what I’m about to tell you. It’s going to be okay!”

She shook briefly and straightened, taking a tissue from his box to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. “I’m so sorry, baby. It’s just so much to bear—”

“I get it. As you often say, He never burdens us more than we can handle. We don’t have to pay the lawyer upfront. They often represent clients for free and take their fee from the final settlement.”

She sniffed disdainfully at the business card on his bedside table. “I don’t see how these law firms are any different from Johnson Controls in looking after their bottom line,” she grumbled.

“You’re not wrong,” he agreed, “but think about it this way. We’re getting ready for battle. It’s a metaphor but a sound one. Now the ‘other team’ has a lineup of hard hitters and fast rushers, and our only defense we have is ... well, nothing other than the thoughts and prayers of our friends and the ‘goodwill’ of a court system that’s already leveraged towards the best litigators.”

He waited for his words to sink in before continuing. “Getting an attorney to represent us means he will look out for his bottom line but also strive to ensure we get everything we’re entitled to, including expenses you probably haven’t considered. Things like my future medical expenses, retrofitting our home for wheelchair access, and providing us with a vehicle designed for a handicapped person.”

She looked shocked at his words. “Baby, you won’t be in a wheel—”

“They’re cutting my other foot off next week, Mom,” he interrupted.

Her head shook vigorously as she surged to her feet. “They certainly aren’t! Where did you hear such—”

“Mom!” he exclaimed, causing her to pause. “Just peek under the dressing on my left foot.” Janet glanced fearfully at the foot of his bed but refused to move towards it to look. “My toes are already blackened and dead. My foot is useless and will soon die, too,” he said softly as she grabbed another tissue before sitting back down and weeping. “They have no choice, Mom! I will leave here as a double amputee, in a wheelchair, for the rest of my life.” He let her sob for a minute before he cleared his throat, causing her to sit up and reach for his pitcher to refill his glass. After he took a sip, he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, Mom, but that is a fact I must live with, and you have to accept it. Even so, it will be okay, I promise.”

“How?” she whispered, tears staining her cheeks as she gazed at him miserably. “How is this—” she waved her hands at him, his bed and the gadgets connected to him, “—going to be okay?” She sank into her chair. “Oh my God, you’re never going to walk again,” she sobbed.

“Oh yes, I will,” he retorted. She sniffed and looked back at his determined face. “Prosthetics, Mom,” he replied confidently, “but that’s ways off still. Right now, we must focus on what’s right for us.”

At that moment, there was a light tap on his door, and they saw Scott Bales peeking his head in. “Uh, hi,” he stammered, feeling the tension. “Is this an okay time?”

Janet stood up and turned to gaze at him suspiciously. “I’m sorry, who are you?” she asked.

Peter cleared his throat, “Mom, please! Allow me,” he nodded to the attorney. “Please come in, Mr. Bales.”

Scott opened the door and stepped into the room, dressed sharply, this time in a suit and tie with a coat thrown over his shoulder. He carried a shiny, soft leather attaché case in his hand, but his unruly red curls clashed despite his professional appearance. He smiled brightly at Janet as he approached.

“Mom, this is Scott Bales, an accident and personal injury attorney,” Peter introduced. “His card is on the table. Scott, this is my mother, Janet.”

Despite her reservations, she reflexively accepted his polite hand after he draped his jacket over his left arm and reached out. His youth and charm did little to ease her, even if he was good-looking!

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shipley,” he said as they shook hands. “Peter has told me a lot about you.”

The room chilled as the woman stiffened and glared at her son. “Oh, did he? What pray tell, did you talk about?” She snatched her hand away, and Scott’s expression became troubled.

“Mom. I called him!” Peter protested. “I asked him to come by and discuss this accident and—”

“You what?” She spat. “You don’t get to call on lawyers, young man! And you...” she whirled on the surprised attorney. “Who do you think you are, discussing anything with a minor?”

“MOM! That’s enough!” Peter yelled over her, wincing at the discomfort. “Sit down, please! Let me explain everything.” His tone and delivery startled her, and she promptly did as he asked. Her eyes smoldered as she stared at the uncertain gentleman across from her.

“Mom,” Peter sighed, “please put the knives away. It’s not what it seems. I’ve had time to lie here and think, and I had a lot of questions, so I called Mr. Bales. He came here at my request, and we talked. Nothing was decided, and I didn’t retain him behind your back. I couldn’t, anyway. I’m just a kid, remember?” He then mimicked her voice, “Now say something nice.”

She was always urging him that if he didn’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything. And when he tried to argue, those were her exact words. Janet bit her lip as she struggled with his tactic, which cut her off at the kne ... She blushed at the thought of his condition. With a sniff, she lifted her chin and regarded the young red-haired man. “Mr. Bales, it is a pleasure to meet you. You appear a well-put-together young man.” That would honor the goodwill.

“Thank you, Ma’am. I’m a product of my mother’s upbringing,” he replied with an easy smile.

“Are you a Christian, Mr. Bales?” she asked, and Peter groaned inwardly at the imminent interrogation. But the Attorney smiled again and held up a gold ring fashioned into a Celtic knot, with a cross crafted loosely from a clover leaf upon the front. It was the symbol of Saint Patrick. “Pure-blooded Irish Catholic, Ma’am.”

“He’s twenty-seven, graduated Magna Cum Laude from Gonzaga University, and is currently unmarried ... I think,” Peter interjected, deflating her sails.

Her cheeks flushed as she sighed resignedly and sat back down, sweeping invisible dust bunnies off her dress. “Well ... at least he’s a respectable man of God,” she sulked.

“I think he knows your divorce lawyer,” her son added. “Mr. Wise, right?”

She glanced up as Scott nodded. “Indeed, I know Coran well. We went to law school and took the Bar together,” he said. “He will represent you well, Ms. Shipley.”

She accepted his compliment with reservation. “Forgive me, but Mr. Wise seems much older than—”

“Jeez, Mom! They went to school together,” Peter interrupted.

Scott raised his hand. “It’s quite alright. She is correct. He is much older than me. He was a Board-certified Anesthesiologist before he switched careers,” he grinned with a wink. “Something about a bitter divorce and his ex-wife being entitled to a substantial amount of his medical salary,” he cleared his throat, “but you didn’t hear that from me.” She covered her mouth as she listened to the scandalous gossip.

“Sounds like you are in good hands,” Peter interjected coyly.

“Well, then, why don’t we just get down to business, and you can explain to me what this is all about,” she replied as she sat beside his bed. The attorney remained standing across from her.

“Okay,” Peter began, “I want us to hire Mr. Bales as our attorney in the lawsuit against Johnson Controls. Despite your concerns about his age, he is a third-generation family attorney who works with his father and grandfather. He doesn’t require any upfront payment and will collect his fee on top of any settlement we win.” He gestured to the red-haired lawyer. “I’ll be quiet now and let him carry on.”

Scott Bales chuckled and placed his attaché case on the bed beside Peter’s covered leg. “Thank you, Mr. Shipley,” he said, producing several papers. “As your legal representative, I’d first obtain copies of the police reports and findings from the crash scene investigators.” He handed the documents across Peter’s lap to the curious woman. “These are the reports in question ... if you choose to retain me,” he winked.

Janet studied the papers. She hadn’t even known of their existence before that moment and wondered why the other lawyers she’d spoken to hadn’t mentioned them.

“The conclusions are straightforward and damning for the defendants, Johnson Controls,” Scott went on. “They are blatantly liable and will have trouble spinning it otherwise. Attempting to do so in court would only make them look foolish. There’s zero chance they won’t try to settle to avoid unpleasant publicity.”

He let her glance through the documents, some of which contained graphic images of the crash site after Peter had been rescued and transported to the Emergency Room. She shuddered and put the forms in her lap, then shook her head in disbelief, “How could this happen?”

“That’s the question. And it’s why they’ll do their best to settle instead of allowing the lawsuit to go forward.” He reached into his briefcase and produced several more sheets, which had been printed on expensive paper. “This is a preliminary list of damages that we will seek. Not everything will be monetary,” he added as he pointed to several bullets in the text. “For instance, they will remodel your home to meet Washington State Statutes for handicap and wheelchair accessibility and provide you with a new wheelchair-accessible vehicle. They will provide any other prescribed medical mobility devices or adjuncts for Peter and pay for your continued medical care from the accident for life.

“The rest are monetary amounts based on national guidelines for specific damages. Because this is a profound, life-altering circumstance, they should compensate and assist you in realigning your career goals so that you can provide for yourself. This includes retraining or whatever other educational expenses you require to prepare for your new future. I know it’s difficult for you to consider, but there are monetary values assigned for specific loss of a limb or a permanent disability or disfigurement.”

“Cool!” Peter replied. “How much are my feet worth?” Janet gasped at his flippant inquiry but looked toward the attorney.

“According to last year’s punitive dismemberment reimbursement rates, the loss of a single foot is worth about $100,000. Losing both feet will be significantly higher. I will be asking for $750,000,” he answered. “But before I can itemize the rest of your injuries, I need access to your medical treatment records.”

After he finished, silence filled the room, and Janet found her son staring at her expectantly. “What?” she asked harshly.

“Mom ... this is where you say: ‘Mr. Bales, I would like for you to be our attorney’,” Peter prompted.

She looked at the young man and sensed a mature calm reflected in his encouraging smile. Glancing back at the attorney, she found his expression nearly identical to Peter’s.

“You have my word that I will serve you to the utmost of my ability, Ms. Shipley, and I have the wisdom and experience of both my father and grandfather at my disposal. As God is my witness, I have you and your son’s best interests at heart. God is my witness,” Scott assured, crossing himself and kissing the ring on his finger.

She nodded, with a heavy sigh, “Mr. Bales, I would like you to be our attorney.”

He solemnly reached into his attaché case and produced another packet of forms. “I need to review these with you before you sign them, and then I’ll visit the medical records department to see if they’ll surrender Peter’s records without a subpoena.” He stepped around the bed and set the papers on the bedside table. She stood to join him. “This first form authorizes me to serve as your attorney. By signing, you allow me to represent you as my client in litigation, settlement, and transactional negotiations.” He produced a fancy pen from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

She briefly reviewed each form and then initialed and signed where indicated. “This page discloses my fee, which amounts to 28% of the final settlement amount, including any non-monetary damages. For example, if they agree to pay $84,000 in construction fees towards the retrofitting of your home, that amount becomes part of the total settlement. The highlighted paragraph shows a hypothetical scenario where we win a total settlement of $1,250,000, resulting in my fee of $350,000.” She balked at the amount, then realized they’d get almost a million dollars. She signed and initialed. “Next, you authorize me to access Peter’s medical records and legal reports, such as the police and investigative findings.” He indicated the pertinent parts of the document and her spots to sign and initial.

“This next one is a necessary form that protects me from indemnity if findings contradict the expected outcome.” He hesitated as she frowned at the sheet. “It won’t prove necessary because I am confident we’re ironclad. But—hypothetically, if it went to court and the defendants could somehow prove that Peter was responsible for the accident—say he jumped out intentionally or threw rocks at the driver or some other silly nonsense—the case may get thrown out. Again, we don’t have to worry because there are plenty of corroborating witness statements, and they would have to be insane not to settle.” His logic eased her misgivings, and she signed the document.

“This is a temporary limited power of attorney allowing me to act on Peter’s behalf in your absence when the time to disburse settlement funds into whatever investment, trust, or holding vehicles you have lined up. It’s not important right now, and we will discuss it further when the time comes—but I need the authorization now.” He finished explaining, and she signed it like the others.

Scott collected the forms, put them in his briefcase, and winked at Peter. “I’ll make copies and bring them next time. Meanwhile, I’ll file a cease-and-desist to stop the harassment.” He slung his blazer over his shoulder and headed to the door. Smiling back, he said, “Thank you again for allowing me to represent you. You have my card if you need to contact me for anything. It also has my dad’s number if you can’t reach me for any reason or aren’t happy with my work. I’ll be in touch soon.” Then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Janet stayed quiet as she re-took her seat and rubbed his leg gently.

“So, that went pretty well,” Peter said softly.

“Mmmhmm,” she replied absently. “Anything else you want to spring on me while I’m still seated?”

He swallowed uneasily. Time to change the subject. “Well, since you brought it up—”

She looked back at him sharply, and he wet his lips nervously. “What?”

“Alan and Kat came by this morning and brought me those two magazines,” he darted his eyes at the bedside table. “Check out the computer on page 26 of PC Mag.”

She rolled her eyes reproachfully, reaching for the magazine. “Computers again?” It was an old talking point.

“C’mon, Mom! Now I’m gonna need one more than ever!” he begged with adolescent fervor.

“Why is that?” she asked, thumbing through the magazine.

“Well, I can’t just get up and work a regular nine-to-five job anymore! It will help me finish high school, and I’ll also need it for college.”

“Mmmhmm,” she replied noncommittally. At least she didn’t say no this time! Peter thought and smiled.

Chapter 3: Iron Maiden

“When do you get this metal crap out of you?” Kathy asked, tapping a steel pin sticking out of his right arm.

“It’s only been two weeks, Kat,” he replied, flexing his left arm and scratching his nose. They had just removed the hard cast and replaced it with a padded wrap to remind him it was still healing. “Probably another week or two. Hopefully, they’ll be out by Valentine’s Day.”

She traced her fingers up the halo apparatus attached to his head. “Got plans? Dancing?” She looked away indifferently, but her mind eagerly awaited his answer.

He snorted, “Depends on your idea of dancing. Do you know the flopping halibut?”

I’d flop around with you, she said to herself. “Sounds kinky,” she smirked. “Is it a couples dance?”

He hiccupped and laughed, “Where’s Al?”

She shrugged, “He said he’d come by later. His mom is nagging him about his grades.” Finally, she sauntered over to the chair next to his bed and plopped into it, resting her arms on the bed rail and her chin on her arms. “So, what do you want to do?” Make out?

“I dunno,” he sighed. “Sometimes I’m so bored just laying here. There’s only so much to think about, you know?”

“I suppose. I’m not in your shoes,” she winced at her unintended gaff, but he didn’t notice. “Thoughts are as random and innumerable as stars, you know?”

“It’s like I get mentally derailed whenever I try to think about stuff, you know?” He shrugged. “It’s like a riddle that just escapes me.”

“Sounds like you need more information,” she replied quickly. “Are you trying to solve a puzzle—like the Fibonacci spiral?”

He sniffed disdainfully, “Each number in the sequence equals the last two ... done.”

“Maybe you could distract yourself with a book,” she suggested.

He chewed his lip and nodded, “That’s exactly what I need!” He looked at her sideways, “Can you get me a few at the library?”

She nodded lazily with her head in her arms. “Sure. What do you want?”

He thought about it. “Anything on corporate finance and investing. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds, options, futures, anything you can find.”

She sat up and shook her hair off of her face. “Yeah, I can do that for you. It’ll cost you, though.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “My wallet is over—”

“Your money ain’t no good round here, pale face,” she teased.

“What do you want?”

“I’ll let you know—” she replied smugly before resting her head back on her arms, watching him coyly.

“Well, that killed three minutes,” he said with a grin. “What else you got?”

She giggled, “Want me to rub your feet?”

He coughed and winced as he laughed. “Damn! That was cold!”

“Nah,” she grinned. “Hey, when they cut off the other one, will they let you keep it?” There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.

He regarded her incredulously, “Why would I want to keep my old dead foot?”

“So, you can stick it in a jar and put it on the mantel beside your old dead brain!” She tapped his bedrail and swung at an invisible cymbal. “Badum tish!” she mimed. “Now, that was cold!”

Despite the soreness, he couldn’t help but laugh as he tried to keep from shaking his body. “Oh ... God! That ... hurts!”

“Good, laughter is the best medicine,” she quipped.

“Not with a chest tube,” he gasped.

---

The day before Valentine’s Day, the surgical team met with him and his mother to discuss the prognosis of his ischemic limb. After numerous sensory tests for tactile, heat, and cold, they marked his lower leg above his ankle for amputation. He compared the line with his other missing limb when he drew back his gown.

“This might be the craziest question ever,” he hesitated. “But is it okay or even feasible for you to chop it off to match my other leg?”

His mother gasped, but the doctors listened with interest as he explained how it would probably be easier for him to adjust to prostheses if he didn’t have to stumble around on mismatched legs.

“That’s a very astute observation,” the chief of surgery commented. You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“Yessir,” he replied humbly, “and I realize it’s probably contrary to the institution to remove tissue that is still ... alive.” He lifted his left hand and rested it on the external brace, holding the pins in his left thigh. “I’m just wondering, is all.”

The old balding doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully and nodded. “We have to discuss this, and I want to reach out to a colleague at Walter Reed.” He gestured, and the group of white coats left the room, leaving him alone with his incredulous mom.

They took him to the OR early the following day to remove the external fixators from his legs and right arm. He woke up around noon, taking inventory of himself. Without the metal pins and frames, he felt less encumbered. His head remained secured in the halo traction, but he could reach down and pull back the sheets covering his legs. Both ended four inches below his knees, though the left was wrapped in thick white gauze. The chest tube had been removed a week ago, and he hoped the Foley would soon follow, allowing him to pee for himself. Reassured, he rested his head, eased back onto the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Hours later, the anesthetic wore off, and he needed large doses of morphine for pain. They let him sleep for the first couple of days until he could bear the discomfort with minimal narcotics. Alan and Kathy visited him two days after Valentine’s. They found him stuffing his face with chocolates from a heart-shaped box. He looked up and regarded them with a bright expression.

“Hey guys,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Did you bring me these?” He held out the near-empty container. He had returned several pieces after taking a bite. “Have some.”

Kat poked through the wreckage, shaking her head. “I did, but—damn, dude! I didn’t think they’d let you eat the whole box at once.”

“They never told me I couldn’t,” he replied, licking his fingers. He surrendered the candy and allowed them to pick some un-chewed pieces.

“You seem pretty upbeat for someone who just lost a foot,” Alan said, biting into a chocolate.

“Man, having those rods out of my legs, hip, and arm is awesome!” he replied. He held up his right arm with its soft cast and turned his hand. “See? I’m right-handed again. Now I can rewrite my notes from last week.” He referred to the dozen books that Kat had brought him. As he began reading about investing basics, he asked her for notebooks and pens. His offhand was slow, but he took his time to ensure he could read everything. A stack of books on his table was filled with torn paper bookmarks. He was eager to buy stocks, but Scott advised him that a settlement was still weeks to months away.

When his mom caught him reading and taking notes, she grumbled that his time would be better spent catching up on schoolwork.

“Have them bring it by,” he replied casually, “and I can get it done, too.”

She knew better than to challenge him on it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Kathy sang as she chewed.

“No kiss?” Peter joked.

She curled her lip at him. “And risk putting my eye out on the Iron Maiden?” she retorted. Inwardly, she felt her breath catch at the thought.

“Are you two going steady now?” Alan sniffed disdainfully. “Like Donny and Marie?”

Kat could’ve kissed him for vocalizing her secret longing.

Peter frowned at him. “Do I look like Donny Osmond?”

“Captain and Tennille?”

Kathy poked him, “Do I look like Toni?”

The Asian nerd scrutinized her, with her long black hair, “Mmm ... maybe more like Cher.”

“That makes me Sonny,” Peter quipped.

“I like it!” she beamed, touching his untrimmed hair inside the halo traction ring. “You’ve got the hair for it; you just need the handlebar stash.”

“Mom says I need a haircut and wants them to remove the hardware long enough for a trim.” He scratched his scalp over his right ear.

“Sure, risk total paralysis for a haircut,” she snorted.

“That’s pretty much what the nurses told her.”

Alan was wearing a backpack and slipped his arm out of the strap. “I wish you had access to a computer,” he said, pulling out a thick binder. In the middle was a small stack of 5 ¼” floppy disks held together with a rubber band. “I got Slots and Bingo here but need your help.” He set the disks on the table and the notebook beside them. When he opened it, the pages were full of handwritten programming code. They were creating several games, but Peter believed they could develop a simple slot machine and build on it. They hoped to release beta versions on the bulletin board networks and—if well received, sell them.

He took the notebook and began reviewing the notes written in different hands. He recognized the harsh, blocky text from Alan’s grip and the thinner, elegant script from Kat’s left-handed writing. Many of his notes were included, but it had been weeks since he contributed. He was still the better C programmer, and they relied on him to fix the bugs.

“Why did you cross out all these attributes?” he asked, thinking in the programming language.

“Because it fucks everything up when you hit jackpots,” Alan replied.

“There’s nothing random about it,” Kat added. “They are almost sequential, and the payouts are staggered in orderly increments.”

They stayed silent for several minutes as he frowned over the notes. “I think there’s something wrong with the iostream inputs,” he murmured. “But I can’t do anything with this.” He put the notes down and rubbed his eyes. “I need to get in front of it to see how each ‘cout’ displays.”

Kathy nodded, her lips pressed together. “Every time you win the ‘Jackpot’ or ‘Big Money!’ the fonts are all wrong, and my color commands aren’t working.”

“That’s because they aren’t ordered properly in the main function. Write it into the standard namespace declaration.” He sighed in frustration. “I need a fricking computer!” he grumbled.

“I could bring mine,” his friend replied hesitantly.

“Al, that beast weighs a ton,” he replied. “You’d kill yourself lugging it down the hall, much less across town.”

“It’s okay,” Kathy replied, trying to ease his angst. “We can figure it out. It just takes us longer. The Bingo graphics are awesome. The tumbler and chute are working, and the balls appear and roll down the chute like we wanted.” She flipped to another section of the notebook. “The problem is when it switches displays between the tumbler and the player’s cards.”

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Leave the notes with me tonight, and I’ll look them over when my brain isn’t foggy from these drugs.”

His two friends sat quietly beside his bed and watched him for several minutes. A TV Guide sat next to the television on a corner shelf. Alan grabbed it and began thumbing through it. “Wanna watch some boob tube?” he asked. “Doogie Howser, Quantum Leap, Baywatch—” he winced and glanced at the tall Senior across from him. She rolled her eyes at his embarrassment.

“Quantum Leap,” Peter replied, suddenly interested. His friend got up and turned on the TV and the channel box.

It took two weeks of begging and an adolescent meltdown before the neuro/spinal specialist listened to Peter and considered removing the external cranial fixator. He was surprised when the doctors rounded and advised him of their plan.

“You’re going on a road trip tomorrow, Mr. Shipley,” the Chief of Surgery stated. There was anticipation in the room.

Peter sensed the anticipation in the room and heard The Beatles’ iconic song, Day Tripper, in his head.

’Got a good reason ... for taking the easy way out.’

“Um, okay,” he replied, setting aside his latest PC Gamer magazine. “Where am I going?” He looked at the grinning senior resident, Dr. Merchant. “Shouldn’t my mom be here for this?”

The 26-year-old ‘Doogie Howser’ nodded, “She’s on her way,” he replied. “I spoke to her about an hour ago.”

“We can return once she arrives if you like,” Dr. Hearst (Chief of Surgery) added.

“Oh, no,” Peter cut in, interested. “I’m all about day-tripping. Please, go on.”

Only ‘Doogie’ caught the reference and grinned again. “You’re always talking about wanting to go to UW.”

He stared back at the group blankly. “Um.”

Dr. Merchant stepped closer and knocked on the halo frame that kept his head pinned. “Dr. Osterman wants better imaging of your cervical spine before considering removing the Iron Maiden.” It was a term of endearment from Peter, Kathy, and Alan.

Peter began to piece together their conversation. “A CAT scan?”

The Chief of Surgery nodded. “We’re still installing ours, but the Montlake Campus has one of the best on this coast,” he said. “And one of the only MRIs.”

“MRI,” Peter replied, testing the term. “Magnetic something, right?”

Just then, his door opened, and his mother entered the room, entered, looking slightly disheveled. He saw an unfamiliar man in the hallway before she closed the door.

“I’m sorry for the delay, doctors,” she greeted nervously beside Peter’s bed. She touched his face and shoulder reassuringly.

“It’s quite all right, Ms. Shipley,” Dr. Hearst replied. “We were presenting your son with a plan for tomorrow to determine how his spinal injury is healing.”

“I’m road-tripping to UW hospital,” he told his mom with a grin. “I’m getting a CAT scan!”

She looked curiously at the white coats. “A CAT Scan?”

Dr. Hearst nodded. “It’s a relatively new technology that allows us to view the head and spine in 3D. We’ll also do an MRI since the unit is available. That will give Dr. Osterman a better idea of how far Peter’s spine has healed.”

“And with luck, he can remove the rest of this hardware and progress into rehabilitation,” Dr. Merchant concluded.

Another knock sounded on his door, and his two friends burst in. They stopped inside the room, astonished at the doctors and his mom.

“Um ... wow,” Kat said while Alan fidgeted with his backpack.

Peter glimpsed the man in the hallway and felt concerned at his rough appearance and bitter scowl. Then the door closed behind them, and everyone was looking at the two gangly nerds.

“Is this a bad time?” Alan gawked.

“Honey, we’re having an important family discussion,” Janet said firmly. “Maybe you can wait out...”

“I’m going on a road trip tomorrow!” Peter interrupted. He grinned at his astonished friends. “Goin’ to UW for a CAT scan and an MRI. Then maybe I can lose the Iron Maiden!”

It was pure coincidence that the tall Native American girl wore a faded black Iron Maiden Seventh Son tour shirt at that moment. The men gathered around noticed her briefly. Their gazes probably had nothing to do with her lack of a bra or prominent nipples pressing against the material.

She crossed her arms self-consciously as her cheeks flushed.

“Whoa, dude!” Alan exclaimed, oblivious to the situation. “Magnetic resonance imaging is high-tech! That’s, like, right out of TRON.”

Kathy giggled. “You’re gonna be ‘de-rezzed’ Sonny.”

“Is this dangerous?” Janet asked, trying to get the meeting back on track. “Will he be exposed to too much radiation?”

Dr. Merchant acknowledged her concern. “It’s negligible, Ms. Shipley. The CAT scan radiation is concentrated along a plane or ‘slice,’ thinner than a human hair. We receive more radiation from television sets. And the MRI emits no radiation. It’s perfectly safe for him.”

“Um,” Alan cleared his throat and blushed when everyone looked at him. “But the Iron Maiden is metal, right?” They continued looking at him. “I mean, the MRI uses a 5-ton magnet, right? Won’t it rip his head off or something?”

His words nearly gave Peter’s mom a heart attack.

“Jesus! Alan!” Kathy whirled angrily and slugged him in the chest.

Janet’s eyes widened, and she glanced at Dr. Hearst with a panicked expression.

“Oof!” the half-Korean gasped from the punch. “Hey! Sorry!” he gasped. “I was just asking!”

Peter shook his head and laughed loudly, calming the room. “Jesus Christ, Al!” he giggled. “Are you trying to kill my mom or what?”

Dr. Merchant raised his hands placatingly and cleared his throat. “Please. Just relax,” he said. “Ms. Shipley, despite our young genius’s words, I assure you everything will be fine.” He turned to gaze sharply at the embarrassed boy before continuing. “First, we will remove the external fixator entirely—it wouldn’t fit inside the tube anyway. Second,” he directed his gaze back to Peter’s friend, “no one has, or ever will be dismembered by an MRI.”

The meeting lasted ten more minutes before the doctors disbursed.

“Who’s the stiff outside, mom?” Peter asked pointedly after they left.

She looked uncomfortable and wouldn’t look at him as she replied, “Just a friend. His name is Paul, and he is helping me with things while you are laid up here.”

“What sort of things?” he pressed, but she didn’t answer. “Are you dating already?”

She looked shocked by his interrogation and bristled. “No! It’s none of your concern.” She kissed his forehead. “I have to go. Don’t stay up too late; you have a big day tomorrow.” She sniffed disdainfully at the piles of computer books, magazines, and notebooks. She turned her sour expression to Alan and Kathy, who smiled nervously. She walked to the door and opened it. They watched as she nodded to the man waiting for her. He looked strung out, wearing worn-out jeans, a stained t-shirt, and a ripped military field jacket. His greasy hair was uncombed, and he had childhood acne scars on his face. He glared into the room, peering at the teens before the door closed.

“Well, Paul looks like Captain Loser,” Alan muttered after they left.

“Tell me about it,” Kat grumbled. Then she turned and slugged him again.

“Ow! What the fuck, whore face?” he snapped.

“Way to go and almost give his mom a stroke, you dumb ass!” she growled back.

“I’m sorry!” he replied to her and Peter. “I was just asking.”

“Never mind,” Peter said, ending the argument. “Let’s hope I can get this fuck...” he stuttered as his door opened to admit one of his nurses. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Erm ... this ‘freaking’ chunk of metal off my brain case,” he finished sheepishly. She came over to check his vital signs and asked about his pain. He said it was a three out of ten and asked for Tylenol or Motrin instead of narcotics. His frequent invasive thoughts made him fearful of the drugs they gave him when his pain was bad.

After she left to get his medication, Alan removed another notebook from his bag and set it on the table.

“I think we worked it out,” he chirped as Peter opened the notebook and scanned the handwritten code. “We used your mini program to run diagnostics on the code sequences, tagging a ton of character omissions and overstrikes. Once we fixed that, executables worked perfectly.”

Kathy lowered the bedrail on her side and sat on the edge of his bed. She felt pins and needles up her spine when he touched her skin, where her shirt lifted above her jeans. She could’ve purred when he ran his hand softly against her back. “I wish you could try out Oingo Bingo,” she said, referring to the Bingo game she named after one of her favorite bands. “I think it’s ready for beta testing on the Gooney board.”

The Gooney Board was a popular BBS networking system for programmers and gamers to access shareware programs and play online games like Dungeons & Dragons and Star Wars. They planned to release limited versions of each game for free, with full versions available for purchase by mail. Games were copied onto five ¼” floppy disks and sent via USPS Media Mail cheaply. If sales were good, Alan wanted to upgrade and link his disk drives to burn multiple floppies simultaneously. Peter hoped to buy a PC, and Kat wanted a 1990 Camaro RS.

“I’ve been thinking we should discuss something before these two games release,” Peter said as he absently ran his hand along her waist. She made no move to stop him.

Alan was sitting in a chair opposite them with his feet on the bed.

“If we’re going into business together, we must establish a company.” He was about to continue when the nurse returned with his Tylenol.

“Like a corporation?” Alan asked.

Peter swallowed the pills and drank some water before nodding his thanks to the nurse. “More like a limited liability partnership.” He shuffled through his books and pulled out a thin paperback. “Wyoming has a State Statute called an LLC for oil drilling partners.” The nurse regarded them curiously as she turned to leave. “I spoke with Scott Bales, and, with his help, we can establish something similar so that we are each represented equally and protected for ... whatever. We could call it PAK Gaming or something, and all sales will go to the company. We’d have a Tax ID to purchase floppy disks wholesale and everything else for our business. Then we pay ourselves from the company profits.”

They nodded at him while the door closed behind the curious nurse.

“Sounds like a lot of red tape,” Kathy mused. “But cool. Are we old enough?” She relaxed beside him on the bed, feeling like she was on cloud nine.

“There’s no age restriction,” Peter replied. “It’s in our best interests, so I’m having Mr. Bales provide the application forms. I’m drafting simple bylaws for us to review and vote on. Then, we pay a $30 filing fee to register with the State. We can make business cards, letterheads, a logo...”

“Cool, I call dibs on designing the Logo,” Kat chirped. She was, by far, the better artist of the three—and the entire school. “Who has thirty bucks?”

Alan raised his hand. “I do. But I expect to get paid back.”

“Take it out of the first sales,” Peter suggested. “The first ten orders should cover it.”

They planned to sell Oingo Bingo for $3 and Zombie Slots for $5.

“When can you start getting out of bed and mobile?” Kathy asked, tentatively placing her hand on his thigh over the blanket.

“Check it out,” he answered, pointing to the corner of his room where a wheelchair was parked. “I already got to go outside and eat in the cafeteria today,” he said brightly. “Pushing the wheels is a bitch with the Iron Maiden, but hopefully I can take it off soon.”

“What then?” Alan asked.

“Then I go to a nursing home full of old geezers for a month or two of rehab,” he answered. “Scott says the settlement is moving forward, and once the Arbitrator dude signs off on everything, they will begin retrofitting our house so I can roll in and out on ramps and stuff. I can’t move home until that’s done.”

“I hope you can go to the library soon and see how the games work!” He dropped his feet and stood excitedly. “Dude! They are so awesome!” He reached into his bag and removed a Sony Discman with a pair of foam earphones. “You gotta check out the musical score Cher wrote for Zombie Slots!”

Peter felt contentment and happiness wash over him for the first time since the accident. He sensed his ‘other’ sub-conscience recoiling from the foreign sensation and perceived another deviation from his previous existence. Every glimpse of that existence was a chilling revelation devoid of nostalgia. But for once, life looked up for him, and he felt the future was aligning favorably.

He took the headphones, and Kathy helped him twist them inside the Iron Maiden until they rested comfortably on his ears. He closed his eyes when she pressed ‘play.’ He could smell the soft fragrance of her shampoo and reveled in her proximity.

Aside from being a gifted artist, Kathy Parsons was a musical prodigy. Since he met the energetic and free-spirited girl, she had an innate talent for making music. When they visited her home in Fife, he marveled at her room full of instruments. Guitars, both electric and acoustic, lined her poster-covered walls, featuring every concert she attended. Keyboard, saxophone, flute ... there seemed nothing she couldn’t play. She even had a small drum set in one corner but could only play it when her dad was absent.

The score was entirely keyboard synthesizer, but he felt chills imagining the play action during the gameplay. “Wow!”

“We gotta get if we’re gonna catch the next bus,” Alan said as he slipped into his backpack.

“Yeah, I know,” Peter sighed. He glanced at his Asian friend furtively, “Could you give Kat and me a second, buddy?”

The stocky boy regarded them before making a gagging noise and stepping out of the room. “Don’t name it after me,” he called sarcastically as the door closed.

Kathy turned to him and leaned closer. “What’s up, Sonny?” She searched his blue eyes for any sign of unease.

“Hey, um,” he felt his cheeks warming as he struggled for words. “I just wanted to say thanks ... you know, for everything.” Inside he cursed himself for being a chicken shit. Grow up, idiot! He cleared his throat and looked into her soft brown eyes. “I mean ... I think you are pretty incredible. And even though you’re almost a senior citizen ... I’m, like—”

She snorted and grabbed him by the jaw, pinching his cheeks. “Senior citizen, my ass!” she growled and leaned forward to press her lips against his. It was an awkward first kiss because of the external fixator with its metal posts and pins, but they were oblivious as they pressed their mouths together, tasting each other’s tongues. He felt her draw in a deep breath and sigh with complete surrender, giving herself entirely to him. He breathed deeply and grabbed her sides, feeling her ribs beneath her shirt and relishing the contact. He held her like he never wanted to let go, and they stayed there for several minutes.

Finally, Alan burst through the door loudly. “C’mon, Kat!” he cried out. “You can make babies later. We gotta go!”

She sniggered against his mouth, and when they parted, he recognized a new brightness in her eyes. “Herr Dweeb calls,” she murmured. “This is to be continued—” she added, getting off the bed to join the shorter boy by the door. “Bye,” she said softly.

“Bye,” he replied, adjusting himself beneath the covers.

Chapter 4: Road Trip

The transport to UW Medical Center north of Seattle took an hour. They could’ve gone quicker with lights and sirens but elected not to, despite Peter’s urging. There were three male doctors packed inside the square ambulance, as well as two female attendants. Dr. Merchant sat up front with the driver. They were as excited about the new imaging technology as he was to get the screws out of his head.

Arriving at the hospital, he was transferred to a wheelchair and pushed through the winding halls to the Radiology Department. There, he was changed from his hospital garb into a back-less patient gown that left his tighty-whities flapping in the breeze. They wheeled him deeper into the bowels of the department, where they transferred him onto a nonferrous gurney and asked dozens of questions that the attending doctors could’ve answered. “Do you have any metal in your body? Do you smoke? Are you sure you have no metal in your body? What about drugs? Are you absolutely certain you have no hardware inside your body?”

A technician sat him up and removed the screws that poked through his scalp into his skull. After several minutes, the external fixator was removed, and he sighed with relief before someone wrapped a more restrictive plastic C-collar around his neck. The technician then eased him back until he was lying flat on the gurney, wheeled him into the CAT scan room, and helped another tech transfer him onto the hard bed.

“Okay, Peter,” a mechanical voice said. “This is the first run. Hold real still.” The circular machine spun up, and his bed moved into the hole until he saw a circular slit. There was a loud whirring noise that lasted for several seconds, and then his table shifted back a bit. More whirring, more shifting. It went on until the machine grew quiet, and he felt himself moving back out.

An attendant came out of the control room and helped him place his hands over his head. “Okay, we will repeat it, but you are going to go further into the scanner to check the rest of your spine,” he said. “Keep holding still.”

After twenty minutes, they finished the scan and wheeled him on a wooden gurney to the MRI suite. He felt excited as they repeated the ‘metal’ checklist. Lying flat, he couldn’t see the scanner but noticed red and white warning signs about magnetic fields and no smoking. Once everyone removed everything from their pockets and shed anything remotely magnetic, they opened a thick door and wheeled him into a state-of-the-art room. The background noise was loud. They transferred him to the scanning table, put sound-dampening muffs on his ears, and secured him with foam pieces and straps. He was told again not to move, and then everyone left the small room.

The table moved, and he was pulled headfirst into a tight tunnel. He swallowed nervously, feeling like he was in a coffin. Yeah, I’m closing my eyes now. Not seeing helped him imagine open space, but a loud burst of noise ruined it. For an hour, he endured a cacophony of every imaginable sound. Clanging, clattering, honking, whistling, rattling, smacking, clicking, and popping. A cool breeze blew over him, but he felt uncomfortably warm and trapped. He clenched his teeth to distract himself from twitching. The noise sometimes quieted but always returned, like a child banging on a kettle over his head. This is taking way too long! Sweat began to form on his face, neck, and chest. Every time the noise lessened, he felt a minor shift in the table, and the loud banging, clanking, and clicking began again. He started wondering if it would ever end at all, but then it stopped and he was pulled out of the machine.

“You did great, Peter,” the metallic voice said as he opened his eyes. “We’re done, and you get to return to the hospital.”

“Do I get to keep the Iron Maiden off?” he asked.

“That’s up to the doctor after he reviews the films,” the voice said. “For now ... sorry, bud. It has to go back on for the trip home.”

Shit! But the thought went unspoken.

---

Later that afternoon, Kathy and Alan were delighted to see him sitting up in bed and without the metal cage. He had several bruises on his shoulders, and multiple gauze bandages were taped to his scalp. Scott Bales was also present and holding a small camera to document his recovery.

Peter smiled when his friends arrived and clasped his hands, though Kathy held on after Alan stepped back. He shook his head at Peter’s appearance.

“What?” the bedridden boy asked.

Alan shook his head. “I dunno,” he mused. “Maybe I got used to seeing you as Robocop, so it’s hard to recognize you now.” He scratched his head as the lawyer returned his camera to his briefcase. “Dude, I think you may have gotten uglier,” he decided.

Kathy snorted disgustedly and bent over to kiss her boyfriend. “Don’t listen to him. The bruises will heal, and the bandages will come off,” she said. “I think you look good!”

“Yeah, as a stand-in for Hell-Raiser,” Alan retorted.

Scott laughed and patted his client on the shoulder. “I’m out, Pete. Sorry, I didn’t get to see your mom.” He looked serious for a moment. “I’ll look into this Paul guy. You take care. Things are looking better every day.”

“Thanks, Scott,” Peter replied, watching the red-haired man leave.

“Dude, that has got to feel really good!” Alan conceded as he moved his chair to its usual spot while the tall, raven-haired girl nudged Peter over so she could join him on the bed. She kicked off her Reeboks and settled in beside him.

“Dude, you have no idea!” Peter exclaimed. “The holes in my scalp don’t even hurt at all. I’m happy to be able to move my head again, but God, my neck is stiff!” Kat took the hint and began gently massaging his neck and shoulders. He moaned with pleasure. “Oh God, that feels so good!”

“I want to put the betas on the Gooney Board,” Alan said. “I know you want to wait to see them on the computer, but dude, what have we got to lose? We are close to being done and don’t have to advertise them yet. Just see what everyone thinks and check the feedback.”

“We’ll get a ton of suggestions anyway,” Kathy added. “Hopefully, including some useful pointers. Besides, even stripped down, the betas are cooler than anything on the BBS right now.”

“Way cooler,” Alan echoed.

Peter shrugged, marveling at how good it felt to ‘shrug.’ “Alright,” he said. “If you think it’s ready to show, do it. You’re right, it doesn’t have to be perfect yet, just fun and functional enough to hook them.” He shifted and reached for a stack of papers and a file folder. “This is the draft of our business model, my idea for a mission statement, and the completed application.” He handed them to Kathy, who sat up and crossed her legs as she looked through the pages. “I just need one of you to type everything up, then get a money order from the Post Office and mail it.”

He grabbed another book published by the US Patent Office. “I’m going to apply for trademarks for each of our programs. That way, when we produce the final versions for sale, we can write into the introductions that trademarks are pending, and all rights are reserved.”

Kathy finished reviewing the documents and handed the files to Alan, who pored over the pages excitedly. “We are all officers?” he said with a grin. “This is like Chairman of the Board shit, isn’t it?”

“Yep, pretty much,” Peter confirmed. “I wrote bylaws giving us equal shares and votes. There’s no CEO or boss. We’re in this together, and if one or more of us wants out, we offer the others first right of refusal before selling our shares.”

“You should be President,” Kathy said adamantly. “None of this would be happening without you.”

Peter shrugged again. “You guys wrote most of the programs while I was laid up.”

“If you weren’t, you would’ve smoked my keyboard programming faster than both of us combined,” Alan replied, grabbing a pen from his bag. He began crossing out some of the wordage in the bylaws. “I’m going to change it so you are CEO, Kat is Marketing Director, and I’m--,” He tapped his pen against his chin. “What can I be?” He glanced back at them with narrowed eyes, “Don’t answer that!”

“How about CFO or Chief Programmer?” Peter suggested.

The Korean boy’s eyes lit up. “Hell yeah!” He began scribbling on the notes. “We’re getting business cards made up!” His eyes flew open as an epiphany struck. “We HAVE to attend the Game Developers Convention at the Science Center this Summer!”

“Ooh, yes!” Kat clapped her hands and bounced excitedly. Peter’s heart raced at the possibilities if they attended after marketing their first few games. “Oh, Hell yeah!” he replied.

They visited for a couple of hours before Alan’s pocket started chirping. He pulled out a Motorola pager, frowned at the display, and groaned. “Time for me to go,” he grumbled.

Kathy sighed and turned to kiss Peter again. “I hate that parents can reach us now whenever they want!”

Peter grinned as a former memory clashed with his presence. “Just wait,” he agreed, “it will only get worse.”

He watched them gather their stuff and get ready to leave. “Hey Kat, can you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, Babe, what’s up?” she turned back.

“Now that I’ve recovered enough to start getting around, I need to catch up on my schoolwork,” he said. “Mom has been badgering me about it since I woke up a month ago. She was supposed to contact the school to find out what they wanted me to do, but I don’t know if she did. Can you see Mrs. Reed tomorrow and ask if they have decided on anything?”

“Yeah, sure.” She looked around. “Where is your mom, anyway? She didn’t come by today to see you get the Iron Maiden off?”

He grunted. “Nope. I guess she had better things to do ... with Paul.”

“That sucks!”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let you know what they say tomorrow,” she said as she put on her light jacket. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

---

The following day, the last Wednesday of February, found Peter surrounded by therapists, case managers, discharge planners, and other special services personnel. He was gently eased into his wheelchair and then taken to a strange gym on one of the lower floors. There, therapists evaluated his ability to do daily tasks. The list included his ability to shower, shave, brush his teeth, make coffee, drink coffee from a cup, work on a keyboard, use a remote, wash, dry and fold clothes, dress, put himself to bed, get out of bed, take his medications, wheel himself around to different places, use a phone, use a trumpet (he had played for a while in middle school), write a letter, lick a stamp ... the testing went on for hours. It was exhausting, but he found it a fun distraction as he realized all the things he could still do. Best of all, whenever he struggled, the team found solutions or alternatives.

Theyn assisted him to perform modified calisthenics that would strengthen his arms, chest, and core, then put him on a gurney with a seatbelt so that he could perform resistance exercises with rubber bands and weights. His thighs and hips burned by the end, but after the long period of forced inactivity, he loved it.

They wheeled him back to his room in time for a supper of hospital food. After eating, exhausted but newly confident, he fell asleep.

The next morning, he woke up sore and stiff. Despite his nurse’s offer of the more powerful painkiller on his chart, he stuck to Tylenol or Motrin. After breakfast, now feeling better, he turned to Peter Lynch’s ‘One Up on Wall Street’ and reviewed his notes on options trading. Dr. Merchant noticed and, after confirming his interest in investing, brought him the Investor’s Business Daily from the Doctor’s Lounge.

As Peter became more familiar with Call and Put options, he started ‘paper trading,’ recording hypothetical contracts and underlying stock prices in a notebook. Later that afternoon, he created a fantasy portfolio of $10,000 and began tracking his fake trades through IBD. He also watched that evening’s financial news to see what the talking heads shared with the public.

That was a preview of Deja Vu Part One: Rock Bottom. To read the rest purchase the book.

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