"Don't worry, kiddo - I - I'll call 911, I just-" 
She fumbles for what he assumed was a cell phone.
And then, as if ink had been dripped inside green eyes, everything went black. 

                          
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The first thing he notices when he wakes up is the cottony mattress he lay on.
Above him, the plain and familiar ceiling of the hospital. He was back. 
He was back? 
He hated this place, he hated it and everything it offered. False safety, false protection, he didn't want any of it; he wanted to go back to eating popcorn and listening to Wes's Happy...
Wes...
                          
Sam turns his head to the side, his pillow crinkling with the lolling motion. 
Wes is sitting in a chair, not unlike the first time they had officially met, while his arms are crossed and his gaze is lost as he stares off into space. Neither boys say anything. Honestly, Sam was scared to. Save for the fact that speaking might somehow hurt, he was frightened that if he broke what tranquility resided in this room, Wes would take it as an encouragement to crack at it further and yell at him. He would be mad that the other had wound up in this position again, wouldn't he? 
Sam was mad about it.
                          
Wes, after a moment, seems to realize that Sam had awaken, a few rapid blinks of his eyes  pulling him from his small trance. He stretches slightly, hands clasped together in front of him before he releases a pent up sigh. 
"They said you wouldn't be awake till later..." he croaks. Surprisingly, his inflection was as weak as it had been when earlier describing his sisters death. The little girl that had been adamant about tugging upon his arm, grabbing his attention, yet remaining absent for now. And he wasn't taking it for granted. 
                          
Sam presses his lips together, his tongue darting out to wet them for the brief moment in which he thought about what to say next.
"I don't feel awake," he finally sighs, "if that helps."
Wes narrows his eyes, staring now, right into Sam instead of past him. 
It takes all of his will not to squirm underneath the weight. 
"No," the other says slowly. "It doesn't." 
"I'm sorry," Sam chokes. 
                          
Wes's glare dissipates as quickly as it had appeared then, his expression betraying regret. "Hey, don't say that. It's - it's not your fault ..." 
Sam shakes his head with his agreement to at least that, closing his eyes. It wasn't his fault these things kept following him everywhere, or so he told himself. However he couldn't shake the feeling that everything that's happened to him so far was because of something he'd done before. Whether it be in that sea of blackness, or a possible life before this. 
                          
A contemplative Wes continues, pulling him from his mind. "It ... wasn't your fault ... right?" 
Sam frowns, shaking his head again, softer this time. "What?" he whispers.
"You didn't pull on them again, right?"
The nurses, the doctors, and apparently, even Wes, assumed that he had attempted at pulling his stitching free. Did they all innocently think he was suicidal? Not for the first time, he thinks, why would he do that to himself?
"Wes," Sam mumbles, his heart heavy in his chest. "I never pulled on them. I've never..." 
"Then why are you like this?" 
                          
The boy flinches at the words despite that the other most likely hadn't meant them in any degrading sort of way. 
"They can't just fall undone, Sam - you're the only one-"
"No," he argues, "I'm not the only one. I'm never just 'me,' I'm never alone, I thought you believed me about all of this?"
                          
Wes throws a hand up, a scoff following the action. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. It floats in the air, still like a hesitant balloon, holding with it a silent, blissful and painful moment before it p o p s. And Wes continues. "You see them," he mumbles, a statement. "Did my sister," his voice cracks, "do this to you? Is that what you're saying?" He sits forward next, to look Sam directly in the eye. 
Sam's quick to contend though, and he too would have sat up if he could. "No, no it wasn't-"
"Because she was tugging. She tugged three times on your stitches, or something, didn't she."
"No, Wes, it wasn't her. It was - " who was it? "It was a man, n' I knew ... he was ..."
Why...