The Letters In His Desk - pt. 3

First period moves the way most mornings at school do—steady, predictable, almost boring in a way that usually feels comforting. Personal Finance with Mr. Frank is all about numbers that make sense and plans that stretch cleanly into the future. He writes amortization formulas across the board in tidy columns, sleeves rolled to his forearms, explaining interest accrual like it’s a story with a guaranteed ending. Marcus sits one row behind Ethan, angled just enough to keep him in view without making it obvious. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t joke. He just stays there, solid and quiet. Ethan answers when called on, voice even, expression controlled. If there’s pressure building behind his eyes, it doesn’t show. His notes are neat. His posture is straight. Once, Marcus taps his sneaker lightly against the back of Ethan’s chair. A small check-in. Ethan taps back without turning around. I’m good. It’s the kind of silent conversation they’ve perfected.

Second period shifts into discussion mode. AP English with Mrs. Moore is louder, warmer, filled with opinions instead of equations. Sienna drops into the seat beside Ethan just as Mrs. Moore starts pacing between desks, paperback in hand, asking about unreliable narrators and whether bias can exist without intent. The room hums with debate. Sienna speaks easily, confident and animated, occasionally glancing at Ethan to see if he’ll back her up. He does, offering measured insight about distorted perspective and selective memory, his tone calm enough that no one would guess the topic hits a little too close. Mrs. Moore nods approvingly. A few classmates scribble notes. On the surface, everything feels normal. Ethan blends in the way he always does—capable, composed, unreadable.

Chemistry settles him. The lab smells faintly sharp, like sanitizer and metal sinks, and the routine of goggles, measurements, and timed reactions leaves little room for wandering thoughts. Ethan focuses on the experiment, recording data carefully as a pale solution slowly shifts color in a beaker. Reactions follow rules. If you change one variable, you can predict the outcome. There’s comfort in that. For fifty minutes, his world narrows to numbers and controlled change. The restless tension under his skin fades to background noise. He almost forgets the dream. Almost forgets the way it’s been lingering in his head long after he wakes up.

Gym is where everything goes wrong. The locker room is loud and chaotic in a way that feels harsher than usual—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against tile, someone overspraying deodorant until the air burns. Julian is halfway through a dramatic retelling of something that probably wasn’t as intense as he’s making it sound, gesturing wildly while pulling his shirt over his head. Marcus glances at Ethan once, a silent question. Ethan nods. He shuts his locker softly and heads for the gym floor.

The space is bright and echoing, hardwood shining under fluorescent lights. Mr. Ackers stands near a cart of aluminum bats and real baseballs, clipboard tucked under his arm, organizing indoor drills with brisk efficiency. Teams split up quickly. Cones scrape across the floor to mark makeshift bases. Sneakers squeak as everyone moves into position. The energy shifts fast—competitive, reckless, loud. Devon ends up on the opposite team. He notices Ethan noticing him and smirks like there’s something private in that look.

Ethan pulls on a borrowed catcher’s glove and crouches behind home plate. No helmet. No mask. Just trust that everyone knows how to control their swing indoors. Marcus takes first base, alert. Julian claims third. The first few batters cycle through without issue, aluminum cracking sharply against real baseballs. The sound is bigger inside, echoing off the walls. The ball skims fast across the floor or ricochets unpredictably. For a few minutes, it’s just noise and movement and normal teenage chaos.

Then Devon steps up.

He taps the plate harder than necessary, metal ringing. He stands a little too close. Ethan adjusts instinctively in his crouch, aware of how little space there is behind him. The pitcher throws. The ball cuts clean through the air. Devon swings hard. The crack is loud—but his back foot slips on the polished floor. The follow-through doesn’t stop.

The bat arcs wide.

There’s no time to move.

It connects with Ethan’s face.

The sound is sickening—dull and wrong. Pain detonates instantly, blinding and white. His head snaps sideways. Warm liquid floods over his mouth as blood pours from his nose, hot and metallic. The gym erupts. Someone shouts. His glove drops. He sways, lifting a hand to his face and pulling it away slick and red. The room tilts violently.

Julian reaches him first, grabbing him under the arms as his knees buckle. “Stay with me,” he says urgently, voice too loud and too far away at the same time. Marcus doesn’t hesitate. He barrels into Devon, fury overriding everything else, and they both skid across the hardwood in a tangle. Whistles scream. Sneakers pound. The noise stretches thin in Ethan’s ears, like it’s underwater. The lights smear overhead. His fingers twitch weakly against Julian’s sleeve.

Then everything goes dark.

When light returns, it’s softer. Muted. The ceiling of the nurse’s office swims into view in fragments. Pain blooms behind his eyes, deep and pulsing. Every heartbeat feels amplified. Nausea rolls through him as soon as he breathes too deeply. “Ethan?” Julian’s voice is close now, careful.

He forces his eyes open. Cabinets. A sink. A faded health poster about hydration. “What happened?” he manages, words slurring slightly.

“You got hit. You blacked out.”

There’s a gap in his memory where something should be. He lifts a trembling hand to his face and presses against his cheek. It feels wrong. Numb. He presses harder, searching for sensation. Nothing sharp registers.

“Julian,” he whispers, panic creeping in. “I can’t feel it.”

“It’s swelling,” Julian says quickly. “Your nose was bleeding. They packed it. You’re okay.”

But Ethan’s breathing speeds anyway. He presses again like he can force feeling back into place. “I can’t feel my face.” Tears spill before he can stop them. The room feels smaller. “I want my dad,” he blurts, voice breaking. “Please. Call him.”

“They did. He’s coming.”

The nausea hits hard and fast. Julian drags a trashcan close just as the door opens and Adrian steps inside. He takes in the scene instantly and crosses the room in seconds. “Ethan.” His voice is steady but tight around the edges.

Relief crashes over Ethan. “Dad.”

Adrian’s hand settles firmly at the back of his neck, grounding. “I’ve got you.” He guides him forward as he vomits, steady and calm through it. The nurse speaks quietly about loss of consciousness and vomiting. Adrian’s jaw tightens, but his tone stays controlled. “What do I need to sign? We’re leaving.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” Ethan mutters weakly.

“No, you’re not.” There’s no room for argument.

When Ethan tries to sit up on his own, the room pitches again. Adrian steadies him immediately. “Stop trying to help.” He lifts him carefully, one arm supporting his shoulders, the other beneath his knees. The hallway lights are brutal. “Eyes open. Look at me.” Ethan forces them halfway. “Good. Stay with me.”

The car ride blurs. Cool air hits his face as he’s lowered into the back seat. “You’re going to the hospital,” Adrian says firmly. “That’s it.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know. Stay awake.”

The engine hums. The world narrows again. “Dad,” Ethan breathes, and then everything tunnels inward.

When he wakes next, it’s quiet. Dim. Familiar. His bedroom ceiling comes into focus slowly, afternoon light filtering through the blinds. His head aches but no longer feels like it’s splitting open. His face is stiff and swollen, gauze taped beneath his nose. He stares upward until he notices someone sitting at the foot of his bed.

For half a second, panic flares.

Then the figure shifts.

“Hey,” Marcus says softly.

The tension drains. “You scared me,” Ethan mutters.

“Sorry.” Marcus moves closer, mattress dipping slightly. He looks exhausted, jaw tight. “You passed out twice. Concussion. Panic attack. Dehydration. Your dad nearly dismantled the ER.”

A faint breath of something almost like humor leaves Ethan. “Sounds like him.”

“I got suspended,” Marcus adds.

Ethan blinks. “For what?”

“I went after Devon.” A shrug. “Principal Cross wasn’t impressed.”

“Is my dad mad?”

“No. He’s downstairs making soup like it cussed him out.”

That pulls the smallest real smile from Ethan.

Silence settles, heavy but steady. The memory of the gym feels both distant and too sharp. Ethan stares at the thin stripes of light on his wall. “After Devon said something this morning,” he says quietly, “a couple kids asked what he meant. I told them he was lying.”

Marcus waits. A smirk draws over his face but he pushes it back. Later, he would definitely brag to the group that he was the first to get Ethan to talk.

“He wasn’t. Not completely.” Ethan swallows. “I’ve been having this dream. Same one. Over and over.”

Marcus leans back against the headboard, listening.

“It’s a hallway. Too long. My ankle’s messed up, like I twisted it. I can’t run right. There’s a man behind me. I never see his face. I just hear him walking. Not rushing, but not slow. Just a neutral pace.”

The room feels smaller as he continues. “At the end there’s this wired-glass door. The kind with mesh inside the window. I get through it into this empty, cold room. I hide behind the door because my ankle won’t let me go farther.”

Marcus doesn’t interrupt.

“He stops on the other side. Then there are three knocks.” Ethan’s fingers tighten in the blanket. “Calm.” He swallows. “Then the door bursts open.”

“You see him?” Marcus asks quietly.

“No. I wake up first.” Ethan stares at the ceiling. “But it doesn’t fade. That’s the problem. It sticks with me. I can still hear the knocks hours later.” He hesitates. “It feels like a countdown.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.” The words sit heavy. “It feels like it’s getting closer every time.”

Marcus exhales slowly. “You’ve been stressed. Not sleeping. Now you’ve got a concussion on top of it. Brains do weird things.”

“Maybe.” Ethan doesn’t sound convinced.

Downstairs, a cabinet closes a little too hard. The house hums with controlled movement. Marcus shifts closer— not touching, but near enough to anchor the space. “Hey, relax. I’m here, alright?” he says quietly. “You’re not in some hallway.”

Ethan nods faintly. His head throbs in reminder. He closes his eyes, listening to the quiet of his room instead of imagined footsteps. For now, there are no fluorescent lights. No wired glass. No knocks. Just the steady presence of someone sitting beside him, making sure he stays awake.