68

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The sun filters through the blinds, casting a warm, dappled light across my hospital room, drawing thin shadows over the white walls. I’m half-awake, a familiar grogginess weighing down my eyelids, making the world seem soft around the edges. It’s the drugs, a cocktail of painkillers and who-knows-what-else, that keeps the pain at bay and my mind in a fog.

Waking up in the morning is never easy these days. I always want to stay asleep, where the pain isn’t real. That’s always the best spot for me, I think.

As I blink slowly, trying to gather my wits, I notice movements at the periphery of my vision–quiet shuffles and the gentle clink of metal. The nursing staff, who’ve become more like daytime guardians, are tiptoeing around, transforming the sterile room with splashes of color. Balloons bob gently in the air, tethered to my bedside table, their vibrant hues a stark contrast against the clinical whiteness. Streamers twist in lazy spirals from the ceiling, a rainbow caught indoors, leading my gaze to a small banner stretched across the far wall, proclaiming “Happy Birthday, Sam!” in cheerful, looping letters.

One of them catches my eye, and I catch theirs, and we make eye contact. I blink slowly at them, like a cat, and she smiles and puts a finger to her lips. Shush. That’s the hidden message. I lazily roll over.

It’s all so… normal, or at least, as normal as a birthday can be in a hospital. There’s a warmth to their efforts, a kindness that’s become a constant in this place of healing and hurt. My throat tightens with unspoken gratitude, eyes tracing the familiar faces of the nurses as they add the finishing touches, their smiles gentle, yet tinged with a sadness they can’t quite hide. They know quite well the value of time in a place like a hospital. It’s all people have, really. There’s money and medicine but all it really is doing is adding or subtracting time. Actually, that’s all money and medicine do anyway, isn’t it?

I’m getting too introspective. I make some fart noises in my head to undercut my monologue before I start getting weepy.

I want to say something, to thank them, but the words feel heavy, anchored at the bottom of my throat, gelled together with thick saliva and painkillers. So, I just watch, a silent observer to my own celebration, feeling the edges of my reality blur into the soft-focus haze of medication.

The room is filled with a quiet buzz of activity, a muted symphony of care and concern, but it’s the balloons that keep drawing my eye. They’re so full of life, of air and lightness, everything that this place usually isn’t. Sure, I’m in the children’s ward, but most of the time that means the rooms are full of straight up cancer patients. It’s not exactly a nice place in here in terms of mood and vibe.

And then, as quickly as it began, the flurry of activity ceases. The nurses step back, their work complete, leaving behind a room transformed. It’s a small oasis of joy in the midst of recovery, a bubble of celebration that, for a moment, pushes aside the reality of why I’m here. They wish me a quiet happy birthday, their voices a blend of cheer and restraint, before slipping out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the colorful evidence of their care.

Today marks another year of my life, a year unlike any other, filled with challenges and changes I could never have imagined. A year ago, I was playing soccer in middle school and fantasizing idly about marrying my favorite college sports stars, going gaga over magazines like all the other girls my age. A couple months later, I was dead in the water. And then… I’ve been a superhero. For almost as much time as a pregnancy takes. That’s weird. I’m a superhero?

Weird.

As I let my gaze drift once more to the balloons, to the streamers and the banner, I allow myself a small smile. It’s a gesture of acceptance, of appreciation for the effort, for the momentary reprieve from the weight of recovery. Today, I’m the birthday girl, celebrated and seen, not for the scars I carry, but for the milestones I’ve reached. Whoopdee-doo.

From the brink in February, my world was nothing but a blur of pain, machines, and whispered voices. The radiation that should’ve ended me, the bullets, the beatings–it was all there, a cacophony of trauma marking the days. But here I am, standing on the other side of what felt like an insurmountable chasm. The journey’s been grueling, with each day a battle against my own body, a fight fueled by resilience I never knew I had. Physical therapy became my new normal, a series of movements that felt like learning to walk all over again, each step a victory over the shadow of death that loomed so close.

I remember the first time I managed to stand without the room spinning, a moment so monumental it felt like summiting Everest. My recovery wasn’t just physical; it was mental, emotional–a reclamation of the self I thought lost to the night that tried to swallow me whole. The scars are there, etched into my skin despite my regeneration, a roadmap of survival that I wear with a complex mixture of pride and sorrow. But I’ve come to see them as marks of a battle won, not just for survival but for the chance to live fully again.

The cane, once a constant companion, now gathers dust in the corner. It’s overly symbolic, really, of how far I’ve come, enough that my English teacher chided me when I used it in one of my essays, assuming it was an overwrought metaphor. Nope! It really was a cane. From those first, faltering steps to now, where I can walk unaided, the weight of my recovery journey doesn’t feel as heavy.

The medication, once a cocktail designed to keep me tethered to consciousness without succumbing to agony, has been reduced to the bare minimum, outside of the stuff for my bone marrow and the stuff for my bipolar disorder. I’m “basically functional”, which is quite a long way away from where I was waking up from my coma.

It’s been a hell of a ride, I’ll say that much. As I look around at the balloons and streamers, at the tangible symbols of me not being dead yet, I can’t help but reflect on the journey that’s brought me here. I normally hate fluffy reflection shit like this, like when they make you do those end-of-the-year essays in school, but, you know, I think this is the one time where it’s really earned for me. Dear Diary, this year I got put in the hospital by an international supervillain’s lethal radiation powers.

And, by the way, I beat him.

By myself.

I can feel the weight of the meds peeling back the corners of my consciousness, like a persistent tide tugging me under. The whole room takes on this dreamy, underwatery vibe, and it’s kinda trippy, but in a safe, warm-blanket kind of way. I’ve got no fight left against it — the tug of sleep is irresistible, like the world’s comfiest tractor beam just decided I’m the next best candidate for abduction. I let my eyes close, feeling the balloons’ colors behind my lids turn to soft, glowing orbs that waltz to the rhythm of my slowing pulse.

As I drift off, there’s a sense that I’m slipping away from the sterility of the hospital and into something more serene, quieter, even if it’s just the landscape of my own drugged-out imagination. It’s here, in this nothingness, that I don’t have to be a superhero or a patient. I’m just Sam, and Sam’s tired. Sleep, I think, will just be a small dip into oblivion before the day kicks off properly.

The world fades, becomes distant, and I’m adrift on the medication’s currents. It’s okay, though. The oblivion of sleep doesn’t scare me like it used to. I’ve fought too many battles, outlasted too many nights to worry about what’s waiting for me in my dreams.

And then darkness takes me, the pain a dull echo fading into nothingness.

---

It’s later–could be an hour, could be five–when I’m pulled back into wakefulness. The haze from before is lifted, gone with the grogginess and leaving behind a sharper world, colored by voices that are just too familiar. Blinking my eyes open, I’m surprised to find not just the typical sterility of my hospital room but an ensemble of my nearest (and a bit dear) practically looming over me. There’s Dad with his brows furrowed in that mix of worry and contemplation, Mom’s eyes doing that shiny thing they do when she’s two breaths from either laughing or crying, and then Pop-Pop Moe, with his old-timey, good-natured smile.

When the light nudges me awake again, it’s with a gentleness that seems foreign in a hospital room. For a moment, I’m disoriented–floating on the surface of wakefulness, unsure if I’m still caught in the tendrils of sleep. But the voices, a blend of familiar tones and loving banter, anchor me back to reality.

“Sammy! Look who’s decided to join the land of the living,” my father’s voice rings out, a mix of playful sarcasm and the joy that doesn’t quite mask his underlying worry. I can see him, my broad, greying dad, a messy tuft of hair as defiant as ever, just like his daughter.

There’s a chorus of greetings as I rub the sleep from my eyes, blinking back into focus the faces of my family. Mom’s there, her face creased with relief and a smile that lights up the room, her hands fluttering like she can’t decide whether to adjust the blankets or just hold my hand.

Pop-Pop Moe stands a bit apart, his arms crossed, that age-old Brooklynite skepticism etched into his wrinkles, yet his eyes hold a softness reserved just for his granddaughter. “You scared us there, bubbeleh,” he says, his voice rough like sandpaper, but the concern is as clear as day. “Thought you were comatose again,”

“Morris!” My mom squawks, gently swatting him with a hand, while he barks out a thin, reedy cackle.

There’s a tension, though, an atmosphere of cautious civility, as my eyes land on my grandmother Camilla. She’s perched like a bird of prey, sharp-eyed and unyielding, but even I can tell there’s something in her gaze today that wavers, something akin to regret–or is it guilt? She sits, away from the festivities, close to the door, like she’s keeping watch for suspicious figures in the corners of the hallway.

And then there’s Abby–Abby!–standing there with that sheepish, ‘I’ve been caught’ look. Abigail! Abigail Silverman, the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had, here in Philadelphia? She must notice my glare, because she rubs the back of her head and looks away from my gaze. “I was in the area, and I figured I’d swing around,”

No the fuck you were not, Abby, but I’m not going to say that out loud.

The moment I see her, it’s like the dam bursts, and I don’t even care about the stiffness as I lunge forward to envelop her in a hug. Our embrace is all bear and no teddy, tight and fierce, and I feel something in my chest crack open, a pressure release I hadn’t known was building.

“Did you get lost on campus and somehow end up a couple hundred miles out of your way?” I tease, muffled against her shoulder, feeling a warmth that no amount of hospital-grade heating could ever reproduce.

She laughs, a genuine, deep sound that seems to fit right into the spaces of the room. “Yeah, you know me, can’t resist taking the scenic route,” Abby quips back, her arms not letting go just yet.

The room fills with the sound of my family’s voices, a harmony of concern, joy, love, and the complicated threads that weave the tapestry of our collective lives. And it’s in this tangle of arms, this convergence of generations and histories, that I’m reminded of the multifaceted nature of family. They’re an anchor, sometimes a millstone, sometimes a buoy, but always a part of who I am.

“Sam, honey, you look tired, but the good kind of tired,” Mom says, her voice a tender note amidst the cacophony of familial love.

I give Abby another squeeze, reveling in the solid reality of her presence, and allow myself to sag back against the pillows, surrounded, supported, loved. This, I think, is not a bad way to wake up–not bad at all.

The hospital room seems to shrink as the volume of familial banter rises, the space shrinking under the weight of too many conversations happening all at once. Dad’s already off on a tangent, talking about the latest trends in zoning for Philadelphia – did you hear they plan on renovating the Divine Lorraine? Yes, Ben, they’ve been planning that since longer than Sam’s been alive. He’s gesturing wildly, hands framing invisible buildings, his technical digressions completely off-topic, but we all listen because it’s just so Dad.

Mom rolls her eyes but she’s listening, too–her face alight with the quiet joy that always comes when she’s surrounded by family. “You know they have apps for everything now, Rachel,” he says, and I’m going to be very honest – I can’t track where this conversation came and went. “Even keeping track of Hametz during Passover! You know that’s coming up soon, right, Samantha?”

“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. Happy to sit in on that, if I’m out of here by then,” I reply. My Dad just kind of smiles at me in a weird way and turns back towards the conversation.

Pop-Pop Moe, perched at the edge of my bed, chimes in with, “Back in my day, we just didn’t buy bread,” and his eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that hints at a thousand untold stories, each one probably more embellished than the last. “It’s a very easy way of managing things.”

Abby, meanwhile, leans against the windowsill, her free spirit barely contained by the four walls around us. Her eyebrow quirks up, and she tosses a wry look my way as if to say, ‘Only our family, right?’ “You know, Sam, I’ve been learning a lot about bread prices, and…” she starts, but I hold up a hand.

“Save it for after the cake, Abby. I want to at least pretend everything is cool and the world’s not, you know, burning,” I cut in with a mock-serious tone, even though a part of me is curious about what Abby’s idealistic mind has cooked up this time.

Grandma Camilla finally breaks her silence, her voice sharp as she interjects, “We’re here to celebrate Samantha, darling.” I can hear the unspoken “Not you,”, and I expect to have to defend Abigail, but she just raises an eyebrow.

“Who are you?” She asks, and Camilla’s face wrinkles up like she just sucked on a lemon. I resist the urge to laugh.

Mom – extremely reluctantly – pats Grandma Camilla’s arm and tries to redirect the conversation. “We should be talking about what sort of cake Sam wants. I’m thinking chocolate, with raspberry filling? What do you think, honey?”

“I’m thinking that sounds like a heart attack, Mom,” I tease, grateful for her but teasing her because it’s a comfort in itself, a reminder that some things never change. “Just make me a giant cookie again like you did last year. I liked that.”

Pop-Pop Moe offers an approving nod, “Now you’re talking sense. Just make sure you eat it fast, before Pesach.”

“Are cookies hametz?” I ask.

“Yes,” comes the almost simultaneous reply from three or four voices at once.

“Aw,” I whine, rolling around in the bed.

There’s a comfortable silence, one that settles over the room like dust after a whirlwind, the good kind of quiet that says everything it needs to without a word. For a brief, stretched out moment, we all just sit there, a mosaic of family with all its frayed edges and mismatched pieces fitting together perfectly.

I can feel Dad’s gaze on me, his analytical mind always worrying, always planning. “Sam, honey, how are your classes? Keeping up with them okay?” His concern is as warm and enveloping as a blanket, and I nod.

“Yeah, Dad. The tutors are great. Almost too great, actually. Makes me feel like I should be having more difficulty or something,” I say with a half-laugh, the situation so absurd that the humor of it is too piquant to ignore. I don’t want to bring up the fact that my grades haven’t been better before – that the reason I’m getting As and Bs now is almost certainly because there’s no superheroing to distract me, but… I don’t! I don’t want to bring that up.

Mom leans forward, hands clasped together in a sort of earnest intensity. “Sammy, you just focus on getting better, okay? The tutors are there to help, not to add more pressure. Right, Benjamin?” She glances over at Dad, seeking affirmation.

He agrees quickly, the softness in his eyes a mirror of Mom’s. “Of course, of course. Sam’s health is the most important thing. Right, Sam?”

I feel a rush of affection for these two, my overprotective, education-obsessed guardians, who somehow make even a hospital stay seem like just another step on the educational ladder.

The conversation meanders, weaving through topics from Mom’s work all the way to Pop-Pop Moe’s latest gripe about the neighborhood bakery’s declining bagel standards, with intermittent interruptions from Abby’s utopian reveries and Camilla’s observational critiques. It’s a tapestry of dialogue, a symphony of familial life that, despite–or perhaps because of–its aimless wandering, is the perfect soundtrack for a birthday on the mend.

---

The pace of the room is like the ebb and flow of the tides, visitors swaying in and out, a rhythm choreographed by the strict yet compassionate nursing staff. The coming and going feels like the pulse of the city itself–every entrance and exit marks a new surge of energy, of stories and shared glances, all swirling around the central fact that, well, I’m still here.

The door opens, yet again, and through it walks Bulwark, his exposed patches of skin glinting in the light between his high-visibility equipment. His entrance would’ve been comical if not for the awed hush that follows him. Like a hero straight out of the comics, with a jaw chiseled enough to cut glass, Bulwark offers a too-wide grin that could light up a room, or blind you, depending on where you’re standing. “Samantha Small, as I live and breathe,” he booms, his voice a deep baritone that vibrates against the walls.

My family shuffles, accommodating space for this larger-than-life figure–Dad giving a nod of respect, Mom clasping her hands in what I guess is an excited apprehension, and Pop-Pop Moe just looking nonplussed. “Nice of you to drop by, Mr. Bulwark,” I manage, words squeezed out between trying not to laugh at the absurdity of a superhero standing by my hospital bed.

He gives me a firm yet gentle pat on the shoulder, mindful of his own strength. “I would not miss it for the world, young one. You gave us all quite the scare.” His eyes glint with a genuine kind of pride, one I can’t help but respond to with a small, self-conscious smile. “My apologies for taking so long to visit. It’s been quite busy, in some aspects, as you could imagine.”

Abby’s eyebrow raises so high it might escape her forehead, but she reins it in, her mouth quirking into a smile. “Definitely beats the regular hospital visits,” she quips as Bulwark laughs, a sound like rolling thunder.

No sooner has Bulwark said his piece than a knock heralds the arrival of Spindle–his appearance the polar opposite of Bulwark’s stoicism, a whirlwind of teenage energy with a belt that has grown a steadily developing array of gadgets. “Heya, Sam,” he greets with a lopsided, kind of stupid looking grin. I wouldn’t expect anything else. “Brought you something to stave off the boredom.” From a satchel slung over his shoulder, he produces a handheld game console.

“Well, I expect to be out here soon, but I appreciate the gesture,” I reply, ruffling his hair. He seems to appreciate the gesture in return.

The parade of superheroes continues with Multiplex, who acknowledges my presence and then retreats quietly to the hallway. I’ve always got the distinct impression that, ironically, crowds are not his forte.

A soft stir catches my attention, and I see Jordan sidling in, Alex in tow. Jordan’s hair looks freshly dyed, several shades darker black than I’m used to, and a lopsided grin stretches across their features. My birthday present from them is a USB cart, with a label saying ‘DO NOT WATCH AROUND OTHER PEOPLE’. I am kind of dreading the contents, but I put it on the steadily growing pile of presents and continue with my camaraderie.

The afternoon turns into a mosaic of greetings and laughter, snatches of conversation peeling away to silence as each of my friends from middle school arrive. Tasha, always the mother hen, clucks over my well-being, fussing in a way that should be annoying but feels endearing instead. Jenna drifts in with her usual air of distraction, handing me a sketchbook filled with her latest art–images that seem to pull the very essence of a subject onto the page. Marcus’s quips are sharp as ever, testing my reflexes, a shadow-boxing match made of words. Lilly is quiet but her hug is worth a thousand words, and Kate’s bluntness washes over me like a much-needed reality check.

Each of their presences are waves in the sea of the day–some overlapping, some pulling back, leaving behind remnants that settle in my heart, anchoring me to the life outside these walls.

The arrival of the Young Defenders is like a spark igniting the air. According to Puppeteer, not everyone could make it, away on patrols or other missions, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless. My family members, sans Camilla and Pop-Pop Moe, who had to retire to greener pastures, know of them only as ‘friends from school’, and we speak in silly code to get around the whole matters-of-municipal-security thing. Crossroads, Blink, and Gossamer join her. Playback, Rampart, and Gale, all busy.

I try not to think about it too hard, and fail miserably.

I nod, attempting to look hopeful, despite the weight in my chest, the slow gnaw of worry for a specific missing presence. Where’s Jamila? Surely she’s heard by now? I keep glancing at the door every time it opens, the hope that it’s her flickering to life and dying, over and over, like a faulty neon sign.

Mom seems to catch onto my silent longing, her empathetic gaze knowing as she leans in close. “She’ll come, sweetheart. Jamila wouldn’t miss this,” Mom says softly, her optimism as assuring as it is a gentle reminder not to lose hope.

But for all the superheroes and middle school friends, the afternoon feels somehow incomplete, a narrative missing its closing chapter. Each time the door swings open, there’s that split second of breath-held anticipation, followed by the gentle deflation of reality as Jamila fails to appear. It’s the unspoken question, the echo after the laughter, the shadow in a room filled with light.

Yet I cannot bring myself to voice it, to make it real. I smile and laugh, throw quips and embrace the fragments of life offered to me, all while part of me treads water in the still depths of waiting.

As the light outside my window wanes, signaling the wistful end to the cavalcade of visitors, my hospital room becomes a quieter place–a sanctuary for the remnants of the day. Mom and Dad are there, still my ever-present rocks, anchoring me to a world of normalcy even as the extraordinary brushes up against us.

It’s in the midst of the doctor’s visit, as the weariness of the hours settles upon us, that the door opens yet again. The figure that steps through is at once foreign and intimately known, draped in shades of night with eyes that have always seemed to hold galaxies. Sorry. I can’t help but think like a romance novel around her. Jamila. She hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat in the doorway, eyes scanning the room. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asks, her voice soft.

Her entry isn’t loud or disruptive–it’s the kind of pause that fills the spaces between beats in a song, the held breath before a storm. There’s a silent exchange–a passing of the baton, as the doctor gives a nod and my parents step back, allowing this final guest her space. I am so in love with this girl. No matter how awkward or tense it gets. All I need to do is look at her face again and I know.

“No, no, you’re just in time,” the doctor says, turning a warm smile to Jamila before directing his attention back to us. “As for the news, well, I think it will make for a pleasant birthday present. Samantha, your tests are looking great. We’re happy to say you can go home tomorrow.”

The room breathes with me, as if every corner of it exhales in relief. My parents’ eyes gleam, mirroring the good news with twin sparks of joy. Dad’s hand finds mine under the blanket, giving it a squeeze as he declares, “That’s not all, Sam. The house–our house–it’s ready. We’ll be going home-home.”

Surrounded by white walls and the antiseptic scent that’s become far too familiar, I feel a flicker of the life I knew, a life that’s been on hold. A life with friends, family, school… a life with Jamila, maybe.

She steps forward, bringing with her a fragrance that’s a whisper of rebellion against the sterile environment–a subtle hint of jasmine undercut with something richer, like leather-bound books and the promise of rain. In her hands, she carries a gift, an offering wrapped in midnight hues, speckled with silver that emulates the night sky she’s always reminded me of. I need to stop reading all the books my Mom sends me because they’re poisoning my inner monologue.

Jamila looks at me, really looks at me, and there’s a hesitance in her gaze, the trembling edge of a storm not quite ready to break. “Happy birthday, Sam,” she murmurs, a soft warmth under the tension, as she places the box beside me.

I meet her gaze, reaching out with a hand still pale against the hospital sheets. There’s a thousand words in our touch, a conversation not quite held, questions and affirmations swirling in the space between us. “Thank you. I’ve missed you, Jami,” I admit, voice barely more than a whisper.

Our fingers entwine, and the tension ebbs slightly–enough to breathe, enough to remember we’re here together, now. “I’ve missed you too,” she confesses, her thumb brushing over my knuckles.

The room seems to understand, granting us the grace of a shared silence. My parents, somewhat respectful of my autonomy, give us the space we need. They exchange looks that carry both worry and happiness, like they know this moment is as healing as any medicine. “I know this is probably a lot for Sam at once, so if you’d like, Mr., Mrs. Small, we can step outside and discuss discharge plans?” The doctor says, gently gesturing to the door.

“I think that’d be just right,” my Dad replies, and they vacate the premises, shutting the door behind them.

Opening the box, my breath catches. It’s a pendant, simple and wrought in a way that echoes the lines of a Gale-force wind. Ha ha. I throw it around my neck, where it clatters softly against the shark tooth pendant I’ve been wearing for what feels like aeons.

“Jamila, it’s beautiful,” I say, genuine awe coloring my tone. The pendant glints as I lift it, catching the last rays of the sun dying outside the window, promising a tomorrow that’s brighter than today.

“Yeah, well,” she starts, an almost-smile dancing on her lips, “I figured I’d get you something that wouldn’t cut your gums.”

The bubble of laughter that escapes me feels like the release of a pressure valve. “A very thoughtful consideration. Would’ve been a nightmare to explain that one to the dentist. Wait, are you implying I bite rocks?”

“Do you not?” she responds, chuckling through her teeth.

There’s more I want to say–thanks, apologies, words of deeper feelings–but they’ll wait. For now, we sit, side by side, not quite ready to dissect the complexities of our relationship. But the moment is ours, simple and cherished.

As the minutes tick away and visiting hours draw to a close, the sense of something gained–restored and yet wholly new–fills the room. My family, my team, my friends… they’ve all come and gone, leaving behind small pieces of themselves inside of me like teeth in my intestines. Parts that take root, grow out, and one day will emerge from my skin as a weapon against evil. Or. Something like that.

And with Jamila here, her dark attire almost absorbing the light of the white hospital blankets, it’s clear that all has been righted in my little corner of the world, at least for today.

“All’s well, then,” I breathe out my hand squeezing Jamila’s.

“All’s well,” she echoes, and it feels like starting over.

End Intermission 4.5: Amnion

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