A very white waiting room, very early Saturday morning. The Kemper family minus one had been sitting anxiously, tiredly, fearfully in it since the ambulance and firemen had arrived. It had been a difficult, cautious feat—getting Kyle up out of the sinkhole. He'd fallen a good forty-five feet. They'd had to set up big lights and send men down on ropes. And they'd brought up Kyle on a board. It was like being in a dream, Jack thought, a nightmare. Seeing his brother unconscious, blood coming from his ear and his legs twisted strange. An identical picture of himself, if he had been the one to fall, Jack knew. But it couldn't really have happened, his parents had insisted. The boys knew not to go near it. They were old enough. And Jack had wanted to flatten his hands against his ears, his eyes, shield them from the ambulance lights and the sporadically flickering dark lights that seemed to cover everything, the distant sound of rumbling, like thunder in the back of his skull, and the panic-stricken face of his mother.

A silent-as-death drive to the hospital had followed. Jack was trying to work out what had happened in his mind, but he was having trouble. He was so certain he'd seen his brother through his window, had gone outside to try and find him, and then, somehow, had ended up at the edge of the hole, listening to something that he couldn't remember anymore. And then . . . the wall had moved and his brother had cried out. That was it. There was nothing more.

Now Jack sat on a leathery hospital waiting room chair, slumped down, his legs spread out wide in front of him, his coat still on even though he felt terribly hot. His face was a blank slate, staring at nothing in particular. If he looked at his parents, he'd be even more afraid than he already was. White sparks, threads and beads of brightness, moved slowly through the air, but for once in his life, Jack did not really notice them. He was too intent on concentrating on nothing.

Dawn seeped in through the small window in the waiting room, brushing the edges of the blinds with a pale yellowy color. It was about seven-o-clock in the morning. Kyle had been in intensive care for two hours, and the Kempers had yet to receive any information about his condition. They knew only that it was critical.

At length, a man in emergency room apparel came into the waiting room. The Kempers and a receptionist were the only people there to hear what he had to say. Jack tried to really comprehend what he was saying, although he found it difficult to listen for all the commotion in his head. Kyle was going to live, that he understood. There was a but, though. What was it? Jack saw his mother's face fall, his father's face freeze in a look of shock. The doctor was grave. Saying he wasn't entirely sure. More tests. Procedures. But what was it? Jack had missed what the doctor had said! He couldn't hear! Something about vertebrae. Weren't those things he'd studied in science class? Things with backbones or without, like jellyfish. Spines. Then it struck Jack. The way Kyle's legs had been when they pulled him out, the backbone or spine . . .

"He broke his back?" Jack breathed, scared of his own words, feeling suddenly like he was going to throw up.

The doctor turned to him. Looked at him with a frown on his forehead. "Yes, in a way. Two of the lower vertebrae in his back have moved out of place," he repeated. "His spinal cord has been severed."

"But he'll be fine, right?" asked Jack, not realizing the absurdity of his question.

It was clear that the doctor didn't know how to respond. He gave the boy a very anxious look, then turned back to Mr. and Mrs. Kemper, who looked no less bewildered than their son. "We'll keep you informed. You can see your boy as soon as we're certain he is stable and regains consciousness."

When they were finally let in to see Kyle, nearly an hour after the doctor first came to them, Mr. and Mrs. Kemper had told Jack not to say anything about what had happened. He didn't know why, but he somberly nodded his head and followed his parents down the hall and into the room where they'd placed his brother. His heart was beating with wild fear and his head was spinning with tiredness and confusion. And when he saw Kyle lying pale and bruised on the bed, an IV needle in his arm and his head wrapped up in gauze, Jack felt something welling up in his throat.

Mrs. Kemper, who had been as quiet as ever in the waiting room, went to the side of Kyle's bed and softly took hold of his hand. Kyle's eyes were slightly open. His lids were swollen. "Hi honey," said his mother, trying to conjure a smile on her face. But the tears were evident in her eyes.

Kyle's chin trembled. Jack saw it, and he watched his brother's chest move up and down as he breathed.

"You're going to be all right, darling," Mrs. Kemper added.

Mr. Kemper stood back a ways, unsure what to do or say, unsure how to react to any of what was happening.

"How do you feel?" the woman quietly went on, holding Kyle's hand up to her cheek. She hated to see her son so battered but didn't want him to know how fragile he suddenly seemed.

"I-I'm okay," Kyle hoarsely replied. His face was puffy from the fall, so his words came out muffled. "How's J-Jack?"

Mrs. Kemper looked toward her uninjured son. Jack passed his father and went to Kyle. "I'm fine," he said. "I . . . I didn't fall."

"Good," Kyle said slowly.

When he'd approached the hospital bed, Jack had caught sight of something. It was dark, and it was resting on the foot of Kyle's mattress. He turned his head toward it, but nothing was there, so he looked back at his brother and attempted to catch another glimpse from the corner of his eye. The thing came back. Whatever it was, it was larger than the dark lights and the spots of shadow that he'd already seen. It almost looked like a black cat resting on the bed frame, watching what was going on.

Kyle made a vain attempt to sit up. His mother told him to stay resting. It was then that the boy made the terrifying discovery that he couldn't move properly. "I-I c-can't . . . c-an't feel m-my . . . legs!" His eyes widened, but then he relaxed again. "Must be the, the umm . . . sleeping stuff. Hasn't worn off yet or s-something."

Mrs. Kemper squeezed Kyle's hand hard. She didn't know how to say what the doctors had told her. But she knew she had to. "Honey," she started.

Mr. Kemper breathed deep. Jack turned and saw tears in his father's eyes.

"It was a very bad fall, Kyle," Mrs. Kemper continued. She was determined, now. Determined not to show too much fear. She was a good mother, that way. "When you landed, you hurt your back badly, honey. The doctors . . ." for as much as she was trying not to cry, her voice faltered for a moment. "They looked at your back, and what happened was some of the bones moved out of place."

Jack held his breath. Now was the hardest part.

"You aren't going to be able to use your legs again, Kyle. They're not positive if anything can be done to change that, but for right now, you won't be able to walk."

Quiet, then. As everybody let Mrs. Kemper's last words sink in. Only the background sounds of the hospital ticked and whirred beyond the room. Mr. Kemper moved closer to Kyle's bed and slowly took hold of his other hand. Jack saw the black-cat-like figure shift sideways. He didn't like it. Didn't trust it. It shouldn't be here, in this room. This white-walled, brightly-lit room. It didn't belong.

Kyle's expression was hard to define. There was no solid emotion on it. But he moved his eyes from his mother, to his father, back to his mother again. Then, in a voice that was strained more with fright than pain, he asked, "I can still p-lay soccer, though . . . r-right?"

His parents looked to one another for answers, but Mrs. Kemper was the one who gave a response, slowly shaking her head. Kyle let out a strangled cry as understanding finally sunk in.

Jack couldn't help himself. Tears came down his cheeks. How had this happened? It wasn't real. It couldn't be. He was too tired to think properly. This image of his parents standing at the side of a hospital bed—his beloved twin lying helpless and bruised—the exact image of himself if he had been the one to fall. Why had everything occurred so quickly? It was too fast. Too fast to absorb.

Kyle was trying to cry, but he hurt too much to let out any full sobs, and his parents were trying to comfort him.

Hoping to get rid of the black thing sitting at the foot of the bed, Jack moved toward it and took its place. He didn't see where it went as it scrambled down to the floor. Then, Jack had full view of his brother, and he stared in disbelief at the outlines of his motionless legs under the white blankets.

Kyle shifted his swollen eyes to his brother. Through his tears, he said, "It's not f-fair, mom! Thi-s is his fault!"

Jack closed his eyes and wiped them with the back of his hand. Words a student had spoken to him some while ago came to his mind. Why aren't you like your brother, retard?