David noticed, like he always did. The day he showed up with that acoustic guitar, something inside me sparked to life. It was the first time I felt excitement that was too big to contain, too pure to hide. Of course, it pissed Scott off. He hated that David saw me, really saw me. Hated that he gave me something to look forward to that wasn't football, that wasn't violence dressed up as character building.

David saw things others missed.

The way I limped after games. How I winced when someone slapped my shoulder. The way my eyes would drop to the floor whenever he visited. He saw what football—what living in my house—was doing to me, physically and emotionally. But he never forced me to answer questions I wasn't ready to face.

Instead, he'd call randomly to talk about music, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Did you hear the new Foo Fighters album?" he'd ask, or he'd drive hours just to surprise me at a game, sitting in the stands like some kind of guardian angel in disguise.

But I knew he knew.

There was something uncomfortable about that—having someone see through the cracks I worked so hard to hide.

Last summer, before he and his family headed back home, he finally said something. It was late, the kind of night where cicadas drowned out everything else. We sat on the back porch, my bruises hidden under long sleeves despite the suffocating heat.

"Nate, if you ever need to talk about anything—anything at all—you can come to me. You know that, right?"

My throat had closed up so tight I couldn't answer. I just nodded, gripping the can until my knuckles went white. He didn't push after that. Just sat with me, letting the silence say what I couldn't.

Now, on the phone, that same silence stretches between us. He waits, giving me space to find my voice, to make the next move. I wonder if he can hear the hospital monitors beeping in the background.

"Do you remember when you gave me that guitar for my birthday?" I finally manage.

"Of course I do. You played “Time of Your Life” for hours. I thought your dad was going to lose his mind."

He did.

A quiet laugh escapes me despite the lump in my throat. The memory carries a sharp edge now—Scott had destroyed that guitar as soon as the Well’s left that summer. Shattering not just wood and strings, but the small piece of joy I'd managed to carve out for myself.

"I haven't picked up a guitar since.”

"Well, maybe this summer you pick it up again and we can have a little jam session. Is that what the kids these days call them? Jam sessions? Or am I that old now?"

I laugh, trying to ignore how it makes my head pound harder.

"Son, are you really okay?"