The Macallan 12-year cask strength Miguel passed from his flask caught fluorescent hospital cafeteria light like liquid copper fire, warmth coating throat with promise of temporary numbness. Mom, this batch has been aging in sherry-seasoned oak that survived storms and came out stronger for the drowning, his voice carrying that smoky-tender combination that made even terrible hospital coffee taste like sanctuary.
We'd transformed Riverside General's fourth-floor family waiting area into satellite Sanctuary—Miguel smuggling scotch in battered flask he'd slip to whoever looked closest to breaking, Della sneaking quesadillas past nurses who pretended not to notice grease-stained bags, Keira organizing rotating visitation schedules with military precision. The hospital staff had stopped questioning our presence after River showed their nursing credentials and Dr. Chen personally vouched for our "therapeutic value."
Bubba lay in room 412 recovering from triple bypass surgery—emergency procedure performed forty-eight hours after stent placement when scar tissue and additional blockages made themselves known through chest pain that sent Remy into near-catatonic panic. They'd cracked his sternum, spread ribs like opening cathedral doors, grafted veins harvested from his leg onto failing arteries, manually restarted heart after putting it on ice. Medieval barbarism disguised as modern medicine, leaving our mountain diminished and hollow-eyed, massive frame lost in hospital bed while machines measured his reluctant continuation.
He looks so fucking small, Remy said for probably the fortieth time in three days, voice emerging destroyed, Cajun accent so thick words blurred together. His cigarette-stained fingers wrapped around Miguel's flask when it came his direction, throat working as scotch burned down. How can someone that big look so goddamn small?
Surgery's brutal, River offered quietly from their corner, forest green scrubs replaced by civilian clothes but medical professional distance nowhere in evidence—they'd been crying on and off since watching Bubba wheeled into OR. They literally split his chest open, Remy. His body's processing massive trauma while trying to heal simultaneously.
I know that! Remy's voice pitched higher, control fraying thread by thread. I know the medical reality, cher. But knowing and watching ain't the same country. Watching him hurt, watching him struggle to breathe around tubes, watching him— His voice cracked completely. Mon Dieu, I can't do this. I can't watch him suffer.
Then don't watch alone, Della said, emerging from cafeteria kitchen where she'd somehow convinced staff to let her work their grill—bacon smell drifted from bags she carried like offerings to gods who'd forgotten mercy. That's why we're here. So you don't have to carry this by yourself.
But Remy looked like he was drowning anyway, dark circles under bloodshot eyes suggesting he hadn't slept since Bubba's first arrest seventy-two hours ago. His hands shook constantly now, withdrawal from cigarettes he couldn't smoke in hospital combining with terror and exhaustion into cocktail destroying him incrementally. He'd lost weight nobody could afford to lose, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, Louisiana rough edges wearing smooth under grief's relentless assault.
Sarah sat beside him—stoic presence anchoring him when he threatened to float away completely. Eat something. Della made blackened catfish. Your favorite.
Can't. Remy stared at bag like it contained evidence of crimes he'd committed. Everything tastes like ash. Like I'm eating the remains of what we used to be before—
Stop. Sarah's voice cut through his spiral with surgical precision. Bubba's alive. Recovering. Fighting. You spiraling into self-destruction doesn't honor that fight.
He coded on the table. Remy's whisper carried across waiting area like confession in empty church. Did you know that? During bypass, his heart wouldn't restart. Thirty-seven minutes on bypass machine while they tried shocking him back. Thirty-seven minutes of him being technically dead while I sat in this exact fucking chair not knowing if—
His sob cut off whatever else he might have said, grief collapsing him forward until his forehead pressed against knees. Sarah's hand found his back, steady pressure without words because sometimes words just dress up uselessness in syllables.
Miguel's flask made another rotation, Macallan coating tongues with sherry-oak complexity that tasted expensive and necessary in equal measure. The scotch provided no solutions, just temporary warmth in sterile cold, brief respite from watching chosen family member fight biology's betrayal while another chosen family member decomposed watching.
Ezra sprawled in their beanbag throne hauled somehow to fourth floor, blue hair electric under fluorescent violence, face showing exhaustion particular to young people witnessing mortality before they're ready. Mom, is he going to be okay? Like really okay?
Define okay. I accepted flask from Brandon, scotch sliding down throat like liquid copper promise. He survived four cardiac arrests and emergency triple bypass. His ejection fraction is thirty-five percent, maybe climbing to forty with medication and cardiac rehab. He'll never be what he was before—mountain reduced to foothills, Georgia granite weathered into something more fragile. But alive? Yeah. If he cooperates with recovery protocol, if his heart continues healing, if depression doesn't derail everything—then yeah, he'll be okay.
That's a lot of ifs, Brandon observed, pen moving across notebook pages, documenting chosen family's medical crisis because writers witness and record, transform trauma into art that proves we existed through impossible shit. And depression's almost guaranteed after cardiac events this severe.
Which is why we show up, Keira said from her reading corner, book abandoned as she watched Remy decompose. We remind him why fighting matters. Why recovering matters. Why living matters.
I'm trying! Remy's voice pitched toward hysteria, accepting flask again with shaking hands. I sit there holding his hand for hours, telling him stories, reading him shit, playing music he likes. And he just—he looks at me with these eyes that don't recognize hope anymore. Like he's already decided this ain't worth the effort.
That's the depression talking, River said, medical professional overriding traumatized friend. Post-cardiac depression affects up to sixty-five percent of bypass patients. His brain chemistry is legitimately compromised right now—combination of trauma, medication, and fear. It's not about you or your love being insufficient. It's neurotransmitters failing to fire correctly.
Knowing that doesn't make it easier, Remy whispered, defeated. Doesn't make watching him give up any less terrifying.
Phoenix appeared with more terrible coffee, ruby ring catching light as they distributed cups. Dr. Chen said he can have visitors besides Remy now. Two at a time, fifteen minutes max. Maybe seeing everyone would help?
Or overwhelm him, Della countered, but her voice lacked conviction. But fuck it—sitting here talking about him ain't helping anyone. Let's go actually be present.
We organized ourselves into rotation—Della and Miguel first because old married couples carry authority that transcends policy, then River and Phoenix because medical professional plus concerned friend balanced each other, then Sarah and Brandon because stoic wisdom plus inappropriate humor sometimes worked miracles, then me and Keira because I'd be damned if I wasn't bearing witness to this mountain's continued erosion, then Ezra and Sage because youth and silent observation offered different medicine.
Remy led us down corridor toward room 412, each step weighted with accumulated dread. The industrial gray walls pressed inward, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, antiseptic smell intensified until breathing felt like drowning in someone else's sterile nightmare.
Bubba looked worse than three days ago.
That shouldn't have been possible—surgery meant healing, meant improvement, meant trajectory toward recovery. But his massive frame seemed smaller somehow, mountain reduced not just in mass but in presence, like essential force animating him had partially withdrawn, leaving meat and bone approximating person without quite achieving it.
The twenty-inch vertical incision splitting his sternum was covered in surgical dressing, but we could see edges—raw wound bisecting chest like canyon carved through Georgia granite. Drainage tubes snaked from surgical sites, collecting fluids his body expelled while trying to survive its own rescue. His arms showed bruising from multiple IV attempts, purple and yellow flowers blooming across dark skin. The ventilator tube was gone, but oxygen cannula remained, measuring breathing that looked labored despite mechanical assistance.
His eyes were open but vacant, dark brown Georgia-deep irises reflecting nothing, staring at ceiling tiles like they contained answers to questions he'd stopped asking.
Cher, Remy's voice broke immediately, moving to bedside with hands hovering like he wanted to touch but feared breaking something already shattered. Baby, we brought everyone. They're here for you. For us.
Bubba's eyes shifted slowly, consciousness moving like continental drift, finding Remy's face with effort that shouldn't be required. Tired, he whispered, voice emerging mountain-deep but hollow, Georgia rumble reduced to echo of itself. So fucking tired, Remy.
I know, sweetheart. But fighting means resting then fighting again. You're doing that. You're recovering.
Recovering for what? Bubba's question hit like physical blow, each word weighted with existential despair. To go back to warehouse work that'll probably kill me? To survive on medications that make me dizzy and nauseous? To spend rest of my life afraid every chest pain is another heart attack coming to finish what this one started?
To be with me, Remy said fiercely, gripping bed rail hard enough to whiten knuckles. To wake up beside me every morning, honey. To argue about stupid shit and make up and love each other out loud instead of in shadows. To have decades we promised each other before this happened.
I'm broken now. Bubba's voice emerged flat, defeated, containing no hope. Mountain with fault lines running through core. One good earthquake and I crumble completely.
Then we reinforce the fault lines, Della said, moving into room with aggressive care radiating from kitchen-rough presence. That's what family does. We don't abandon mountains because they developed cracks. We pour concrete into fissures and build support structures and make sure one earthquake doesn't become fatal collapse.
Easy to say when you're not the one broken.
Motherfucker, I watched my heart break so many times I stopped counting. Della's voice carried steel underneath tenderness. Spent twenty years married to someone who thought love meant ownership. Took me five years of therapy to believe I deserved anything else. You think I don't know what feeling irreparably broken feels like? But broken don't mean unsalvageable. Just means putting pieces back together looks different than before.
Bubba's eyes found hers, something flickering beneath despair—not hope exactly, but recognition of shared survival. How do you survive feeling like you're constructed entirely from damaged parts?
By letting people love you anyway. By accepting that wholeness is myth sold to make damaged people feel insufficient. By showing the fuck up every day even when showing up feels impossible. She moved closer, sat in chair Remy practically lived in now. You think Remy gives one fuck if you're broken? Look at his face, Bubba. Really look.
Bubba's eyes shifted to Remy's face—weathered Louisiana rough edges, bloodshot eyes swimming with tears, mouth trembling with words he couldn't form. Remy looked destroyed, held together by Macallan and stubbornness and love too fierce to acknowledge defeat.
He's breaking watching you give up, Della said quietly. That what you want? Him crumbling because you decided recovery ain't worth effort?
No. The word emerged small, Georgia mountain reduced to valley whisper. But I don't know how to fight this, Della. I don't know how to come back from dying five times in three days. I don't know how to be person worth his love when I'm constructed entirely from surgical intervention and pharmaceutical dependence.
You were always worth my love, Remy said, voice destroying itself on every syllable. Before the heart attacks, during them, after surgery—you were and are and always will be worth every fucking feeling I have, cher. You hear me? Your worth ain't determined by cardiac function or sternum scars or medication regimens. Your worth exists because you exist. Because you're you. Because I love you. His sob broke free. But I can't make you believe that. I can't force you to think recovery is worthwhile. That's work only you can do. And watching you decide it ain't worth effort is killing me almost as much as your heart attack killed you.
Something shifted in Bubba's expression—not transformation exactly, but crack in depression's armor allowing light's possibility. I'm scared, he admitted, voice barely audible. More scared than I've ever been. Surviving being Black and gay in seventies Georgia was terrifying, but this—this is different. This is my own body betraying me. How do I fight that?
Same way you fought everything else that tried to kill you, Miguel said, appearing in doorway with flask. One day at a time. One hour when days feel impossible. One minute when hours overwhelm. You survived by refusing to let hatred and violence win. Now you survive by refusing to let biology win. Different enemy, same stubborn resistance.
The visiting timer buzzed—fifteen minutes expired, next rotation waiting. Della and Miguel retreated, making space for River and Phoenix who entered carrying determination and medical knowledge in equal measure.
River's expression shifted immediately into clinical assessment mode, eyes tracking monitors, noting vitals, cataloging Bubba's presentation with professional precision that cut through emotional fog. They moved to bedside with authority particular to medical professionals who'd stopped taking shit from non-compliant patients years ago.
Alright, Bubba. Let's talk about your recovery protocol because you're going to follow it whether you want to or not. River's voice carried zero sympathy, just clinical directness. Dr. Chen has you scheduled for cardiac rehab starting tomorrow morning at nine. You'll do modified exercises under supervision—walking, light resistance training, breathing exercises. It's going to hurt like absolute hell because your sternum is held together with surgical wire and your cardiac muscle is damaged. You're going to want to quit approximately every thirty seconds.
Then why bother? Bubba's voice emerged defeated.
Because your ejection fraction is thirty-five percent. That's borderline heart failure, Bubba. You don't do rehab, don't cooperate with treatment, that number drops. Drops enough, you're looking at implantable defibrillator, potential transplant list, significantly shortened lifespan. You do the work, take your medications consistently, modify your lifestyle appropriately—that number climbs to forty, maybe forty-five percent. Still compromised, but functional. Livable. River's eyes held his without flinching. Your choice is between difficult recovery with reasonable prognosis versus comfortable decline toward death. There's no third option where you magically return to pre-cardiac-arrest normal. That option doesn't exist.
You're not exactly gentle about this.
You don't need gentle. You need honest. River's voice softened fractionally. I performed CPR on you twice, Bubba. I felt your heart stop under my hands. I felt your ribs compress with every compression, felt your body fight then surrender then fight again. I'm not watching you survive that just to give up now because recovery is uncomfortable. That would make everything we fought for meaningless.
What if I can't do it? What if my heart just gives out again during rehab?
Then we have defibrillators and crash carts and medical professionals monitoring you constantly. Your risk of another cardiac event during supervised rehab is approximately three percent. Your risk of cardiac event if you don't do rehab and continue current trajectory? Closer to forty percent within six months. River's clinical precision cut through emotional chaos. Mathematics doesn't care about your feelings, Bubba. Your heart muscle needs conditioning, needs to learn to function with reduced capacity, needs time to heal while gradually increasing demand. That happens through protocol, not through lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself.
River— Phoenix started, but River shook their head.
No. He needs to hear this. Depression is real, chemical, valid. I'm not dismissing it. But depression plus non-compliance equals death. He takes his beta-blockers, ACE inhibitors, statins, anticoagulants. He monitors for side effects—dizziness, nausea, fatigue are expected and managed. He reports chest pain, shortness of breath, irregular heartbeat immediately. He attends every cardiology follow-up, every rehab session, every therapy appointment Dr. Chen schedules. He does the work even when work feels impossible. River's voice cracked slightly. Because I didn't bring you back twice just to watch you slowly kill yourself through non-compliance.
Bubba's eyes held River's, something shifting in his expression—not agreement exactly, but recognition that River's fury came from place of fierce love rather than cruelty.
Your medications— River pulled out phone, consulting notes. Metoprolol for heart rate and blood pressure control. Lisinopril for blood pressure and cardiac remodeling. Atorvastatin for cholesterol management. Clopidogrel for anticoagulation. Furosemide for fluid management. Plus aspirin daily. That's six medications twice daily, minimum. Side effects include fatigue, dizziness, potential erectile dysfunction, muscle weakness, gastrointestinal upset. They're not fun. But they keep you alive long enough for your body to heal.
Erectile dysfunction? Bubba's voice carried first hint of dark humor. Well that's fucking fantastic. Survive heart attack just to never fuck my boyfriend again.
Potential side effect, not guaranteed. And manageable with additional medication if it becomes issue. River's clinical detachment didn't waver. Your sex life matters less than your continued existence, Bubba. Remy would rather have you alive and occasionally dysfunctional than dead with functioning equipment.
That true, cher? Bubba's eyes found Remy's.
I'd rather have you breathing beside me than anything else, honey. Remy's voice cracked. Don't give a fuck about the rest. Just need you here.
Cardiac rehab protocol— River continued relentlessly. Twelve weeks, three sessions weekly. Each session includes warm-up, monitored exercise, cool-down, education component. You'll learn warning signs of cardiac distress, appropriate activity levels, dietary modifications, stress management. Your exercise capacity will be measured weekly. Progress will be slow. Some weeks you'll feel worse despite compliance. That's normal—healing isn't linear.
What if I have another heart attack during rehab?
Then we respond immediately. That's why rehab is supervised, why you're monitored constantly, why crash carts are accessible. But statistically, you're safer exercising under supervision than you are sitting at home avoiding activity. River's voice carried absolute certainty. Your heart needs conditioning. Avoiding exercise because you're scared of cardiac event is like avoiding chemotherapy because you're scared of side effects. The treatment is harsh, but lack of treatment is fatal.
Phoenix settled into chair beside Remy, ruby ring catching light as they reached for his hand. We're going to get through this. All of us. But Bubba has to cooperate. Has to decide living with limitations beats not living at all.
I'll try, Bubba whispered, exhaustion evident in every syllable. Can't promise more than trying.
Trying's insufficient. River's voice sharpened. You don't try to take your medications—you take them. You don't try to attend rehab—you attend. Trying implies option of failure. This isn't optional, Bubba. This is mandatory for continued existence. So you commit. Fully. Completely. No half-measures, no bargaining, no deciding on Tuesday you don't feel like cooperating.
You're a hardass.
I'm a nurse who's seen too many cardiac patients die from non-compliance. Seen too many people survive the initial crisis then slowly kill themselves through missed medications, skipped appointments, dietary choices that destroy recovering hearts. River's voice finally broke slightly. I brought you back twice. I felt you die under my hands and forced you to keep living. You owe me compliance. You owe Remy compliance. You owe yourself compliance.
The silence stretched—Bubba processing River's clinical fury, River's chest heaving with emotion finally acknowledged, Phoenix and Remy both crying quietly, Sage drawing hearts with cracks on napkins near the window.
Okay, Bubba said finally. Not trying. Doing. I'll do the work. Take the medications. Attend rehab. Report symptoms. Let you all monitor me like I'm fucking science experiment. Because you're right—you didn't fight this hard to let me quit now.
Good. River's voice steadied. Because I need you to understand something. Your brain is lying to you right now. Depression, post-surgical trauma, pain medication—they're all conspiring to make living feel impossible. But it's not. It's just hard. Hard and impossible are different countries. You've done hard things before. This is just another one.
The buzzer sounded—next rotation waiting. River and Phoenix retreated, River's shoulders finally dropping as emotional exhaustion replaced clinical detachment. Phoenix's arms wrapped around them immediately, holding them through the shaking that followed adrenaline crash.
Sarah and Brandon filled doorway next, stoic philosopher and inappropriate humorist creating strange alchemy.
So, Brandon started, settling into chair with notebook, I've been thinking about your situation, and I have thoughts—
Oh fuck, here we go, Bubba muttered, but corners of his mouth twitched upward fractionally.
Your heart tried to quit. Five times. That's an impressive commitment to dying. Like, most people code once and call it good. But you? You're an overachiever even in cardiac arrest. Brandon's voice carried familiar cadence—humor as armor, jokes as pressure release valve. So I figure if you put that same stubborn determination into living, you're basically immortal. Problem solved.
That's your motivational speech?
I'm still working on it. Give me time. Brandon scribbled notes, pen moving across pages. Seriously though—you scared the absolute shit out of all of us. River's traumatized from doing CPR on your massive ass. Remy looks like he's personally experiencing whatever circle of hell specializes in watching loved ones die repeatedly. And Mom— His eyes found mine through doorway. Mom's been terrifyingly calm, which means she's processing trauma through writing and will probably produce devastatingly beautiful story about your cardiac adventures that makes us all cry.
Looking forward to that, Bubba said dryly.
Point is, we need you here. Not just Remy, though watching him decompose without you is particularly horrifying. All of us. You're our mountain, our anchor, our proof that surviving decades of shit that should've killed us means something. You die now, after everything, and it feels like— Brandon's voice caught, humor facade cracking. Like maybe survival ain't guaranteed. Like maybe we're all just one cardiac arrest away from everything ending regardless of how hard we fight.
That's true though, Bubba observed quietly. We are all one catastrophic medical event away from nonexistence.
Yeah, but we don't like thinking about it, Brandon admitted. Especially not when watching you actually experience it five fucking times. So do us a favor—cooperate with recovery. Go to cardiac rehab. Take your medications. Make Remy's suffering worthwhile. Give us back our mountain, even if he's more foothill now.
Foothills are still valuable, Sarah interjected, her philosophical voice cutting through Brandon's rambling. Different topography serves different purposes. Mountains inspire awe from distance. Foothills provide actual shelter, create microclimates where specific ecosystems thrive. You not being mountain anymore doesn't diminish your value. Just transforms it into something more accessible, more human, more honestly vulnerable.
I'm not sure I want to be honestly vulnerable, Bubba admitted. Spent sixty years building defenses against world that wanted me dead for being Black and gay. Now my own body breached those defenses from inside. How do I reconcile that?
By accepting that invulnerability was always illusion, Sarah said, settling into philosophical mode with brown eyes tracking Bubba's face. No one survives unscathed. Pretending otherwise just means lying about scars. You were always vulnerable—you just hid it better than most. Now vulnerability is visible through surgical scars and medication bottles and cardiac monitoring. But that visibility doesn't make you weaker. Makes you honest.
Honest feels dangerous.
Everything worth doing feels dangerous, Sarah countered. Loving Remy felt dangerous when you finally claimed it. Fighting to survive in seventies Georgia felt dangerous. Existing as Black gay man still feels dangerous. But you did it anyway. Do this anyway. Be honestly vulnerable, let people see your wounds, accept help without shame. That's what bravery actually looks like—not performing invulnerability, but admitting need and asking for support.
Bubba's eyes closed, exhaustion winning battle against consciousness. His breathing evened into something approaching sleep, massive chest rising and falling with less visible effort. Sarah and Brandon retreated quietly, making space for me and Keira to enter for our rotation.
The silence felt heavy—not uncomfortable exactly, but weighted with unspoken things, with witnessing someone's breakdown and attempted reconstruction happening in real time.
You don't have to talk, I said, settling into chair Remy had worn grooves into. Miguel's flask passed to me, Macallan burning down throat like liquid copper promise. Just wanted you to know we're here. Bearing witness. Holding space.
Bubba's eyes opened slowly, finding mine across sterile divide. You're going to write this down, aren't you? Make permanent record of my humiliation?
Gonna write down your survival. Your fight. Your choice to cooperate even when cooperating feels impossible. Not to humiliate—to document. To prove we were here, we loved each other, we refused to surrender even when biology made convincing arguments for giving up.
What if I can't do it? What if the rehab is too hard, the medications make me feel worse, the depression never lifts?
Then we adjust protocol. Find different medications, modify rehab intensity, add therapy and support groups and whatever else keeps you fighting. I sipped scotch gone lukewarm. But I don't think you're failing, Bubba. I think you're processing trauma while everyone watches. I think depression is chemical reality making everything feel hopeless when hope actually exists. I think you're scared shitless and covering fear with fatalism.
You think you know me that well?
I think I know what survival looks like after multiple near-death experiences. Looks like bargaining with forces that don't negotiate. Looks like questioning whether living is worth pain required. Looks like depression whispering that death would be easier, kinder, simpler solution to complicated problem. I held his gaze. But I also know what you're made of. Georgia granite weathered by decades of shit that should've crushed you. Louisiana love finally claimed after years of dancing around it. Chosen family watching you fight because your survival matters to us selfishly—we need you here. Not as mountain. As Bubba. Flawed, damaged, honestly vulnerable Bubba who's fighting like hell to stay despite every reason to quit.
His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. I'm so fucking tired, Mom.
I know. But tired means alive. Dead people don't get tired. They just cease. You're tired because you're fighting, because your body is healing, because consciousness requires effort after trauma. That's good news disguised as misery.
You're terrible at comfort.
Not trying to comfort. Trying to keep you alive through brutal honesty when gentle platitudes would let you slip away. I leaned forward, scotch warming belly. You want comfort, Remy's got that covered. He'll hold your hand and whisper sweet nothings and cry on your behalf. I'm here to remind you that quitting is option but not one we'll forgive easily. Not because we're cruel, but because we love you too fucking much to watch you surrender without fighting.
The silence stretched—Bubba processing, me watching him process, Keira's presence anchoring both of us. Hospital sounds filtered through—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, cart wheels squeaking down hallways, life continuing despite individual crisis.
Tell me about when you knew, I said suddenly, needing to fill silence with something other than fear. About Remy. When did you know you loved him?
Bubba's laugh emerged bitter, self-deprecating. Always knew, Mom. From first night he walked into Sanctuary five years ago, cigarette dangling from lips like promise of fire, talking about his mama's gumbo like it was religious experience. Knew it immediately. His massive hand picked at hospital blanket. But knowing and claiming are different countries. I spent forty years in Georgia learning that being Black gay man meant staying quiet, staying hidden, staying alive. Old habits die hard.
What changed?
He did. Few months ago, he just— Bubba's voice caught. He looked at me one night, after everyone left, and asked why we kept pretending we weren't exactly what we were. Asked how much more time we were going to waste being scared when we could be happy instead. And I didn't have good answer. So we stopped pretending.
Best decision you ever made.
Worst timing though. Tears spilled over, tracking down weathered features. Finally get brave enough to love him out loud, and three months later my fucking heart tries to quit. Five times. Five times I've left him—
But River brought you back twice, and EMTs brought you back three more times, Keira said quietly, her voice cutting through Bubba's spiral. Seven people have fought to keep you here across seventy-two hours. That's how much you matter. That's how much you both matter.
Okay, Bubba whispered finally, voice small but present. I'll do the work. Take the medications. Attend rehab. Let River monitor me like science experiment. Report every symptom. Make Remy's suffering worthwhile. Because you're all right—you fought too hard to let me quit now.
That's all we're asking, I said simply. Just keep showing up. Keep breathing. Keep trying even when trying feels impossible.
Miguel's flask made final rotation as visiting hours wound down, Macallan 12 coating tongues with sherry-oak complexity, temporary warmth against antiseptic cold. We filed out eventually, leaving Remy curled in chair beside Bubba's bed, Louisiana fingers intertwined with Georgia ones, both men exhausted but present, both fighting their separate battles toward shared future.
The revolution continues in hospital rooms as much as basement bars, in love finally claimed and survival finally achieved through sheer stubborn refusal to let biology win.
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." - Rumi
Rumi understood what we witnessed in room 412—that breaking open creates possibility for illumination, that sternum scars and cardiac damage become portals through which love and truth and honest vulnerability finally penetrate defenses constructed over decades. Bubba spent sixty years building mountain-strong walls against world determined to destroy Black gay man existing authentically in hostile territory. Those walls kept him alive, kept him fighting, kept him standing when everything conspired toward collapse. But walls also kept out light—kept out Remy's love offered for years, kept out chosen family's support available constantly, kept out possibility of being held completely by people who saw him wholly and loved him anyway. It took five cardiac arrests and emergency triple bypass surgery to crack those defenses, to create wound catastrophic enough that light's entrance became inevitable rather than choice. Now broken-open Bubba lies in hospital bed processing what it means to survive when survival requires accepting help, admitting fear, letting people witness his vulnerability without performing strength. The wound—twenty-inch surgical incision bisecting sternum, arterial grafts forcing blood flow through pathways his body created from desperation—these wounds are awful, painful, potentially fatal if healing fails. But they're also portals. Remy's love enters through sternum scars, River's medical competence enters through IV sites, Della's aggressive care enters through drainage tubes, Sarah's philosophical wisdom enters through oxygen cannula, my brutal honesty enters through monitors measuring heartbeats that kept stopping. We're all entering Bubba through his wounds because that's where defenses failed, where mountain developed cracks wide enough for chosen family to pour ourselves through. He's terrified of this—understandably. Letting light in means acknowledging darkness existed, means admitting he constructed entire existence around avoiding vulnerability that surgery made unavoidable. Depression tells him light is just exposing everything broken and wrong and unfixable. But light also illuminates path forward, shows foothold locations for climbing out of despair's canyon. Remy is light—Louisiana love refusing to be dimmed by cardiac arrests or surgical complications. River is light—medical knowledge deployed with fierce protective fury. We're all light trying to enter through wounds Bubba didn't choose but must now integrate into new version of himself. That's what recovery looks like after catastrophic breaking—not returning to previous wholeness but creating new wholeness that incorporates wounds as essential features rather than shameful failures. Bubba's figuring out if living with twenty-inch scar and pharmaceutical dependence and honest vulnerability beats alternative of giving up. Light's entering whether he cooperates or not—now he just decides whether he lets illumination show him possibilities or blinds him with exposure to everything he spent decades hiding from. The wound exists. Light's entering. Recovery means learning to tolerate illumination, means letting people love him through cardiac damage and depression and fear. Means accepting that mountains with fault lines are still mountains, just more honestly themselves—cracks visible, reinforcement required, but standing. That's what we're fighting for in room 412. Not invulnerability's return but vulnerability's acceptance, not mountain's restoration but foothill's recognition as equally valuable topography. The wound opened him. Now we pour light through opening, hoping illumination reveals path toward living that feels worth the effort of continued breathing.