“Angela?” A round nurse looks at me expectantly. “It’s okay to see him now.”

I rise to my feet. “Thanks,” I mumble, a spike of pain shooting through my cheek. I head down the long corridor. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Everything about this place is gray: the walls, the food, the lights…

A heavy-set man in a hospital gown wanders ahead of me. He takes one step forward and then a few steps back. At first I think he’s one of the residents, but on closer inspection, his flesh is pale and his eyes are vacant, not of this world. I keep still as the stench of death fills my nostrils.

Cautiously, I slip past the wandering apparition and make my way through a door on the right. Elliot’s propped up in bed, his leg elevated. Bandages cover his body and tubes and wires probe and poke his arm. A BP monitor chirps in the corner. He slowly turns his head to look at me. A frail smile spreads across his lips.

“Hey,” I say, caught off guard by how he’s hooked up to so many machines.

“Hey you,” he replies. I tiptoe closer, afraid I’ll somehow disturb his recovery. We don’t say anything. Elliot reaches for me. I place my hand in his and give it a good squeeze. We stare into each other’s eyes. There are little flecks of green in his, and seeing this again, the random details of this boy’s life, levels me in a way I can’t describe.

Because we’re the last ones standing. We’re still here.

Walking out of the recovery room, orderlies pass me by, their eyes just as dull as the departed. My mind drifts back to Jackson, seeing him on the side of the road with that mutilated grin on his face. Has he found Beth now? Is he in a better place? I guess dead or alive, we’re all slaves to something.

At the end of the corridor is a long line of vending machines. Silver sides. Double-stick padding. I walk over and browse the chocolate and sugar coated options, this mundane action calming me. To be honest, I’m not even hungry, but after not eating since yesterday I feel like it’s something I should do.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I place it gingerly to my ear. My father breathes on the other side. I can hear him crying. “Dad? Are you there?”

His voice catches in his throat. Short, staccato breaths punctuate the silence. He tries to speak, but can’t. I think about how I just saw Jackson, and how I can never explain to my father that there’s a part of him still with us. “Dad, I’m sorry I missed your calls.”

His voice stops and starts. “Ange. My God. Are you all right?”