The nurse's rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor as she pushed the medication cart down the hallway.
Dawn light seeped through dusty windows, painting the walls a dull orange. Room 307 was her last stop—the young guy with the missing arm.
Michael Cobb, according to the chart.
She remembered his first week here. Screaming into his pillow, snapping at anyone who touched his bandages. She'd overheard the doctors—no family visits, insurance troubles, bills piling up.
A real tragedy.
But Shift's almost over, she thought, just check on the sad baseball kid one last time.
She knocked lightly. No answer. Not surprising.
Pushing the door open, she expected to see the usual: Michael curled under thin sheets, phone glow lighting his hollow face.
Instead, the bed lay flat. A lump under the blankets mimicked a sleeping body, but the IV tube dangled free, dripping saline onto the floor.
"Mr. Cobb?" She nudged the IV pole. "Time for your—"
The blanket collapsed as she pulled it back. No Michael. Just pillows arranged in a crude body shape. The IV needle dangled from the railing, still dripping.
Oh, hell.
Her pulse spiked. She yanked the call button. "Code Yellow, Room 307! Patient missing!"
Alarms blared. Footsteps thundered down the hall. But the nurse stared at the open window—the one four stories up—where dawn wind fluttered the curtains.
How?
Michael hadn't climbed out a window.
He'd walked straight past the nurses' station at 5:03 AM, wearing stolen scrubs and a baseball cap pulled low. His heartbeat had been a jackhammer in his ears, his stump throbbing under the bandages. Every step sent fire up his spine—weeks in bed had turned his muscles to wet newspaper.
Move. Just move.
The exit sign glowed like a beacon. An old lady in a wheelchair eyed him. He nodded, sweat dripping down his neck.
"Exercise," he croaked.
She blinked. "Bless your heart, dear."
And just like that, he was outside.
Cold air slapped his face. His legs wobbled. The parking lot stretched endlessly, but he focused on the traffic light across the street. Green means go.
By the time he reached the university track, the sun had risen. His stolen scrubs clung to his skin, soaked through. Every breath felt like inhaling razors.
The track was empty. Perfect.
He glanced at his phone—5:07 AM. Four hours until the car wash. The YouTube video had 87 views. Not great, but comments trickled in:
"Stay strong bro!!"
"My cousin has a prosthetic! They're legit!!"
Michael shoved the phone into his pocket. Focus.
The track stretched empty before him. His sneakers, still hospital-gray, crunched over gravel.
Adjust. Lean into the right.
He stumbled to the starting line, phantom fingers twitching. Three months ago, he'd run five miles daily. Now?
One lap. Just one.
He ran.
His legs gave out in thirty seconds.
He face-planted onto the rubberized track, skidding. Pain erupted in his knees. The world spun.
Get up.
A beetle crawled through cracked asphalt near his face. He watched it struggle, antennae quivering.
Get the fuck up.
He pushed onto his elbows. His arms shook. The beetle vanished into the grass.
You're not even as strong as a bug.
"Screw…that…"
He crawled to the bleachers, hauled himself up using the railing.
Again.
He pushed himself to his knees, muscles trembling. Sweat dripped off his nose, splattering on the rubberized track.
Lurching upright, Michael gripped the bleacher railing until his knuckles whitened. His missing arm threw his balance off—a problem he'd never considered. Phantom pains shot through the stump as he shifted weight, like invisible fingers yanking a marionette string tied to nothing.
Stop whining. Fix it.
He staggered back to the starting line, this time planting his feet wider. Right arm cocked slightly out, compensating for the left side's absence. It felt wrong, lopsided, but maybe...
"Go," he growled, lurching forward.
This time, he lasted twelve seconds before his legs folded.
"Damn it!" His fist slammed the track, the impact shuddering up his arm. The sound echoed across empty bleachers. A pigeon startled, wings clapping as it fled.
Get up. You've faced worse.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to march around the track's inner lane. Each step sent needles up his calves. The August sun climbed, baking his stolen scrubs to his skin. He focused on the rhythm: left, right, left.
Eyes forward. Don't limp.
By the third lap, his hospital slippers had disintegrated. Blisters bubbled on his heels. But his stride had evened out, the unbalanced sway lessening.
Progress.
He allowed himself a grim smile—then immediately tripped over a crack.
"Hey, watch it!"
Michael looked up. A gray-haired man in a sweatband glared down, bicycle brakes squeaking.
A familiar voice cut through the morning haze:
"Michael Cobb?"
The world tilted as Michael squinted up at the man on the bike. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring the familiar broad shoulders and buzz-cut hair.
Coach Harris.
Of all people to find him crawling on a track at dawn.
"You look like roadkill," Coach said, dismounting. His voice carried the same gravelly edge that once made freshman pitchers pee their pants. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
Michael pushed himself up, knees screaming. "Jogging."
"Jogging." Coach's eyes flicked to the shredded hospital scrubs, the IV bruise on Michael's right arm. "You escape?"
"Signed myself out."
"Bull. Nurses call the cops yet?"
Michael's remaining hand tightened on the rail. "Not their business."
"You're their business until you're discharged." Coach's gaze dropped to Michael's ruined scrubs, the bloody knees. "You trying to kill yourself?"
I'm trying to live. The thought surprised him.
Three days ago, he'd stared at the cockroach on his ceiling, wondering if it'd outlast him. Now, his veins buzzed with purpose.
"Car wash," Michael panted. "Today. Need to get ready."
Coach blinked. "The fundraiser? Tyler said you wanted it moved up, but…" He gestured at Michael's shaky legs.
"Either help me or get out of my way." Michael pushed off the bleachers, immediately stumbling.
Coach caught him by the elbow, grip calloused from decades of lineup cards and baseballs. "You're as stubborn as before." He sighed.
"C'mon. My truck's in Lot C."