Alex was elbow-deep in the heavy bag when the house phone rang, the old corded one Mom kept on the kitchen wall because her cell was always dead. He ignored it at first probably a bill collector but it kept going, shrill and mean, cutting through the *thump-thump* of his combos. He let the bag swing, wiped sweat with the hem of his shirt, and jogged inside.
The caller ID said **LOS CUATES DINER**. His stomach dropped.
He snatched it up. "Yeah?"
A woman's voice cracked and rushed.
"Alex? It's Sandra. From your mom's work."
He knew Sandra big hair, always gave him free sopaipillas when he was little. Her voice was wrong. Too high. Too fast.
"What's going on?"
"Your mom,Maria,she collapsed. Like, twenty minutes ago. She was taking an order, just folded. Hit her head on the booth. There's blood. We called 911, they're taking her to UNM. I didn't know who else—"
The phone slipped in his sweaty hand. "Is she okay?"
"I don't know, honey. She wasn't waking up. I'm so sorry"
He was already moving. Dropped the phone, let it dangle by the cord. Grabbed his backpack, shoved his feet into sneakers without tying them. Dad's keys were on the hook by the door he snagged them, the old Ford keychain rattling. Mom's pickup was at work. He had the bike.
The screen door slammed behind him.
The bike was a piece of junk chain rusted, pedals loose, but it moved. He pedaled like hell, standing up, thighs burning. Central Avenue blurred: pawn shops, liquor stores, a guy selling tamales from a cooler on the corner. His hoodie flapped open, sweat cooling in the wind. He cut through the arroyo, tires skidding in sand, jumped a curb and kept going.
His phone buzzed in his pocket Layla, probably. He didn't check.
UNM Hospital rose up like a fortress, all glass and harsh lights. He ditched the bike against a *NO PARKING* sign, didn't lock it, ran through the ER doors. The waiting room was chaos: a kid screaming, an old man coughing into a mask, a TV blaring some cooking show nobody watched. The bleach smell hit him like a punch.
He found the desk. "Maria Ramirez. Ambulance. My mom."
The nurse name tag *C. GARCIA* looked up, eyes tired. "You family?"
"Son."
She typed, nodded. "Trauma bay three. Curtain area. Family only."
He followed her down a hallway that smelled like death and lemon cleaner. Beeping machines, crying, a janitor mopping something red off the linoleum. His sneakers squeaked. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Trauma bay three was a corner curtained off with blue plastic. Mom's eyes closed, face grey. An IV dripped into her arm. A bandage wrapped her forehead, dark red blooming through. Machines beeped slow. A doctor young, scrubs stained with coffee looked up from a clipboard.
"You the son?"
Alex nodded, throat locked.
"She's stable," the doctor said.
"Exhaustion, dehydration, concussion from the fall. Blood pressure tanked. She's been running on empty. We're keeping her overnight. Fluids, rest, CT scan in the morning."
Alex stepped closer. Mom's hand was cold when he took it. Her nails were chipped, grease still under them from the griddle. She didn't move.
"Can I stay?"
Doctor hesitated, then shrugged. "Chair's yours. Don't touch the wires."
He sat. The plastic chair was too small, dug into his back. The machines kept their rhythm *beep, beep, beep* like a heartbeat he didn't trust. He counted them to stay calm.
Sandra showed up an hour later, still in her diner apron.She hugged him so hard his neck cracked.
"She was fine this morning," Sandra whispered.
"Told me her feet hurt, but you know Maria never stops. Then she just… dropped. Plates of huevos rancheros went everywhere. I caught her head before it hit the tile."
Alex's voice was gravel. "Thanks for calling."
Sandra left a paper bag on the tray table Mom's purse, her cracked phone, a crumpled apron with a ketchup stain shaped like Texas.
"We're praying, *mijo*. Tell her we need her back flipping burgers."
She left. The curtain swished shut.
Midnight crept in. Nurses came and went, checking vitals, adjusting the drip. Mom slept. Alex didn't. He stared at her face lines deeper than he remembered, gray hairs catching the fluorescent light. The bruise on her wrist from carrying trays was yellow now, fading. He thought of the bills on the fridge, the red stamps, the way she smiled through cracked lips when she handed him a plate and said *"Eat, you're growing."*
His phone buzzed. Coach.
**Heard about Maria. Hospital?**
He typed:
**UNM. She's out. I'm here.**
Coach:
**Coming.**
Coach rolled in at 1:17 a.m., gym sweats, hair wild, smelling like Bengay and coffee. He didn't say much just dragged a second chair over, sat heavy. The machines beeped. The hallway lights dimmed for night shift.
"She's a fighter," Coach said finally.
"Tougher than your old man ever was."
Alex's voice was raw. "She shouldn't have to be."
Coach didn't argue. Just reached over, squeezed his shoulder. "You eat?"
"No."
Coach pulled a smashed protein bar from his pocket, tossed it. Alex caught it, didn't open it.
They sat till the windows turned gray. Mom's chest rose and fell, slow and sure.
Morning came with bad coffee and fluorescent hum. A nurse brought, broth, a cookie wrapped in plastic. Mom stirred at 7:03, eyes fluttering. She saw Alex first, then Coach, then the IV.
"*Mijo*," she croaked. "What happened?"
"You passed out," Alex said. "At work."
Her eyes filled. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He took her hand. "Just rest."
She looked at him, really looked. "You're here."
"Nowhere else."
Coach stood. "I'll get real food. Golden Pride. Extra green."
He left. The curtain swished.
Mom's voice was small. "You're not going to the rail yard."
"I already—"
"*Alex.*" Sharp now. "No."
He sat back. "We're behind. Rent's"
"I got a second job. Truck stop. Nights. Cleaning. Pays better." She squeezed his hand. "We'll catch up."
His stomach twisted. "You don't have to"
"I do." She closed her eyes. "But you don't. Not like this."
The doctor came back at 9:00. Scans clear. Concussion mild.
"She needs rest. Real rest. No doubles. And someone to make sure she eats."
Alex met his eyes. "That's me."
Mom started to argue. He cut her off.
"No more diner. Not till you're better. I'll figure it out."
She searched his face. Saw the same stubborn jaw Thomas had before every fight. She sighed.
"Okay," she whispered. "But you don't quit school."
"Deal."
Coach came back with burritos, foil steaming. They ate in silence, passing the green chile like contraband. Mom managed half, then slept again.
Coach leaned in as they stepped into the hallway.
"Gym's yours when she's home. But you train with me. No more lone wolf crap."
Alex nodded. "Yes, sir."
Coach clapped his back. "Good. Go home. Shower. Sleep. I'll stay till her shift replacement gets here."
Alex hesitated. "Coach?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Coach's eyes softened. "Family, kid. That's what this is."
He biked home slowly. The city was waking kids at bus stops, sprinklers hissing, a lowrider idling at the light. The garage door was still open, heavy bag swaying in the breeze. He locked the bike, grabbed the protein bar, ate it standing in the doorway.
The robe hung on
the nail. He touched it, felt the patches, the faded gold. Dad's voice whispered: *Take care of your mom, mijo. That's the real fight.*
He closed the door. The bag stopped swinging.