Still Crazy After All These Years

[Dr. Sean Neville]

June 10, 1977.


Sean had come up to the City from Long Island to spend the weekend with Daphne and Greg. Particularly Greg, as the blond was in poor spirits.

Sean couldn’t blame him. If an untalented singer had successfully mounted a campaign to take away his rights in Florida, or any state, he would be upset too. Meta-humans had no legal protections, and so they weren’t covered by anti-discrimination laws, and it bothered him. But, at least meta-human status wasn’t a crime in a bunch of states, it hadn’t been considered a mental illness, and, at least as far as the Catholic Church, it was viewed as a blessing from God rather than a sin. Certainly there were no campaigns mounted against them specifically so that they lost what small measure of protection they had.

The telepath preferred invisibility to being demonized.

He slung one arm around the blond man’s shoulders. “We can go to that bar you like,” he suggested. Daphne agreed with a smile.

Greg preferred gay bars, since he liked to flirt, and he wanted to go somewhere without having women throw themselves at him. Would that Sean or any of their straight friends had that same problem, although he did understand the frustration and discomfort that came from unwanted attention. Meanwhile, the telepath didn’t need to flirt or hit on people when he went out to bars, since he wanted to meet a girl at NYU rather than a stranger in the broader City at large. For her part, Daphne liked the gay bars because she felt safe there; Sean was the only straight man they had ever seen at a gay bar, which meant that she could be free of unwanted attention and harassment.

“Okay,” Greg replied somewhat glumly. His typically indominatable joviality had taken a deep hit with this news. Both Daphne and Sean hoped that the drinking and music and endless parade of other men who found him attractive could serve as a distraction.

The familiar bar had a new sign in the window. Anita Bryant Sucks Oranges. A far kinder remark than many might have made; Sean was impressed by the community’s restraint given what amounted to an attack on their safety and livelihood.

The three of them approached the bar, where another sign read “No more screwdrivers. Ask about the Anita Bryant!”

Greg did. “What the Hell is that?” He gestured at the sign proclaiming the new drink, but he couldn’t bring himself to say her name aloud, as though it might give her power the same way that saying “Bloody Mary” in the mirror might summon that murderous spirit.

“Vodka with apple juice,” the bartender explained.

It didn’t sound in the least bit appetizing. Perhaps that was the point.

“All proceeds go to gay activists to help fight her,” he added.

Sean turned towards his friends, silently inquiring. Then he faced the bartender again. “We’ll take three.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

May 25, 1986.


Fifteen minutes was a long time to hold hands with strangers while maintaining his shields against the onslaught of a crowd with thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands all clustered in one spot and thus all squarely within in his telepathic range.

It was a particularly long time when one took into account that Sean worked on weekends, and he spent an increasingly large amount of his shifts engaged with patients suffering from AIDS, or who had other terminal illnesses, or who had made suicide attempts. Even though he spent far less time on his feet than his associates in the ER who engaged in physical medicine, like the surgeons or the OB-GYNs, he was exhausted most of the time. He made rounds the same as they did, except he had to go back and forth between the main hospital and the quarantined wing where they stuck all of the AIDS patients, as though they weren’t human.

He had been placed on the overnight shift, stuck working from 11:00p.m. to 11:00a.m. this morning. There had been a suicide attempt brought in, a jumper, and the telepath had been tasked with staying in her room to keep an eye on her for half the night. Then his replacement had been late coming in due to a family situation (Sean had no family and was treated accordingly, as though his time didn’t matter), which led to him leaving the hospital closer to 1:00p.m.

He barely had time to get home, since his apartment was on the other side of the City from the hospital, shower, and down two cups of coffee and three pieces of toast, before he had to head out again.

He had promised Daphne and Greg that he would meet them at their spots near the George Washington Bridge. They had all paid the $10 to reserve their spots, and the telepath had never felt more grateful for planning ahead than he did in this moment.

It was for a good cause, he reminded himself. Even if he was exhausted, and that meant maintaining his mental shields might take more energy than he had left in him.

It was for a good cause.

He could spare another fifteen minutes today.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

February 6, 1978.


Sean tossed Greg a flashlight. “Put batteries in that and stick it back in the kitchen.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

Sean glared at his roommate, which caused Greg to sigh and acquiesce. He shuffled off to where they kept the batteries, pulling out two so that he could load the flashlight.

“It’s just a snowstorm,” he pointed out. They had survived several this winter alone. Moreover, both men came from New York and Sean had gone to school in Vermont for six years, no strangers to snow; it wasn’t as though this was the End Times.

“I don’t like unnecessary risks.”

“Really? And here I thought you were a daredevil.”

That earned another glare from the telepath, who was hunched over the living room table, sorting through their medical supplies. “You can laugh if you want, but I’d rather be cautious.”

“I guess there are worse ways to spend the day than cuddling with you,” Greg said with a laugh. NYU had canceled their classes in anticipation of the storm. The blond also considered that an overreaction, but he wouldn’t argue with a free day. Junior year math classes for his architectural degree were challenging, and another day to go over the work would do him well.

“You should go shower,” the telepath replied, not replying to the cuddling remark. He took no offense to his roommate’s sense of humor, and he wasn’t homophobic and thus found nothing disgusting or problematic about the idea of two men cuddling. Even if he didn’t think that they would need to do that for warmth.

He’d picked up some extra blankets from his parents during his last visit home for that reason.

“Why? I have the whole day.”

“Not if the pipes freeze. You need to shower, and then I need to fill the bathtub with water. I don’t want us to go without.” Sean checked off the items on his list and then promptly shut the medical kit.

Greg blinked at the telepath. “You were a Boy Scout, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I didn’t make Eagle.” He’d had to quit the Scouts when his powers manifested. There had been no time for Boy Scout meetings when struggling to maintain his sanity at Hammel.

“Do you still have the uniform?”

Sean sighed affectionately at the other man. “Go. Shower. Now.”

The blond threw his hands up in the air and disappeared towards the bathroom. “Try not to stare while I undress.”

“I’ll do my best.” Sean had his back to the other boy.

*****************************

When Greg finished his shower and had dressed in an additional layer “just in case,” he found Sean in the kitchen making sandwiches.

“It’s 10:15a.m.”

“I want food in case the power goes out.” Sean looked up from the bread. “Did you drain the tub?”

“I thought you wanted it full!”

“Not with dirty or soapy water.”

“Fine.” Greg turned on his heels and disappeared back into the bathroom. The sound of the drain sucking down the water was loud in their otherwise quiet apartment, reaching the telepath’s ears. He nodded in approval while he continued to make what might be their lunch, supper, and possibly breakfast for the next morning.

As the blond stepped back out, the telephone rang. On the second ring, there was a knock at the door. Sean and Greg shared a glance, and the telepath pointed at himself and then at the phone. Greg nodded in agreement, and they passed each other on the way to the phone and the door respectively.

“Hello?”

“Sean? Do you have enough food for tonight?”

“Yes, Mom.” He had expected this call, but not so early. “How about you?”

“Of course.” As though his mother and father might fail to prepare for an emergency situation. “But your father was called in. They worry there might be a lot of accidents, and it’s safer to have him there now than to leave in the worst of the storm.”

The telepath couldn’t argue with that.

Meanwhile, Greg answered the door.

“Hi, Stranger!” Daphne greeted him with a smile. She had a bag slung over her shoulder, a sleeping bag tucked under her arm, and a shopping bag in his remaining free hand.

Greg blinked but stepped to the side to allow her in. “What brings you out here?”

“Sean invited me over. He’s a little worried about the storm, and he promised to feed me.”

The telepath turned from the phone, offering Daphne a wave and a smile, while he continued to speak to his mother. “The heater isn’t electric, so we should be fine,” he promised. In truth, he fully expected to have no heat, because the school-provided heating system proved rusty and subpar, and he and Greg relied on space heaters for that reason. All the more important that they had blankets and winter clothes.

“I’ll call to check in later,” he promised. Then he hung up.

“Did you get here okay?” He asked Daphne as soon as the phone was back in its place.

“It’s not too bad out yet,” she promised. “Where should I put everything?”

“Sleeping bag in the living room. We can always swap tonight.” Ever the gentleman, the telepath had prepared himself to sleep on the floor so Daphne could have a real mattress. Of course, if the worst happened, he assumed all three of them would have to sleep in the living room to cuddle for warmth.

Sleeping with a woman he wasn’t married to and his gay best friend. If only his parents could see him now.

Daphne dropped the sleeping bag to the floor and shrugged off her backpack. Then she handed the shopping bag to him. “I thought we might need some extra bottles and food.”

The telepath peeked inside and smiled. “You’re an angel. I’m going to fill these up right now.”

The more water they had set aside, the better in case the pipes froze. And on that topic... “Did you get to shower before you left?”

“Of course!” Daphne didn’t know how guys could stand going out without bathing.

“Good. Then can you fill the tub up for me?”

She smiled and disappeared into the bathroom; she’d spent enough time in this apartment to know where all of the doors led. And, besides, her dormitory was laid out much the same way.

To Greg, Sean said, “Turn on the television and then get all the blankets out of the closet.”

The blond turned on the set as requested but then asked, “All of them?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

By noon, the three juniors were huddled up together on the sofa, drinking hot cocoa and watching the snow fall past their windows. They watched news coverage and talked about classes. They ate sandwiches and discussed politics.

Later that afternoon, Sean pulled out two decks of cards, so the three of them could play a few hands of poker and pinochle.

Then the lights flickered twice before shutting off, plunging them into darkness.

Sean grabbed the nearest flashlight and turned it on. Flicking it on, he turned it towards Greg. “Still think I was overreacting?”

“I’m going to get another sandwich,” Greg replied, not answering the question. Yet, inwardly, he was glad that his friend had done the preparations.

It was one of the reasons he liked living with Sean so much. And, if he had to ride out a power outage and a blizzard, he couldn't think of a better way to do it than with his two best friends.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

October 31, 1975.


Drama House had thrown an open Halloween party for anyone willing to show up and kick two dollars into the pot to cover damage and alcohol. Since the drama geeks were all ages, and because you didn’t have to belong to Greek life to attend the party, Drama House was a popular spot for freshmen still feeling out the social scene.

Greg and Sean had agreed to go and to dress for the occasion. The blond had suggested that they go as Frankenstein and his creator, until Sean had explained that Frankenstein was the doctor and that the creation had no name formally. Greg had thrown his hands up, told him that he was the only person who knew or cared about that, and then tasked him with finding costumes.

The telepath hadn’t wanted to frustrate his friend. He simply liked the original novel because of its complicated view on the nature of life, death, good, and evil. To him, the world was shades of grey with some strong black and white parameters on either side, and he respected anyone who could so eloquently describe those grey areas.

He knew that Greg was smart enough to appreciate that. Although they had only known each other for a couple of months, he saw the deep intelligence and sensitivity in the other boy, which his blond friend hid behind an air of charisma and flirtation.

At least that sense of charisma and flirtation came coupled with equal parts exhibitionism and fun; Greg hadn’t laughed or refused when the telepath suggest they dress up as pirates.

Somehow, the blond looked great in everything he wore, so, despite sporting a bandana, a puffy shirt, a vest, an over-sized hoop earring, and a hook hand, he looked good. The telepath felt slightly more ridiculous with his matching shirt and vest, and the eye patch and fake sword, because the shirt was just a bit too small and thus rode up his arms.

Thankfully, Drama House was dark, since so many people were dancing. Others drank or smoked pot, or, high, shoved cookies and chips into their mouths. A few made out in the upstairs rooms.

After a couple of drinks, Greg had left him for the dance floor, dancing with a gorgeous brunette and her blonde friend, who happened to be dancing with a conventionally attractive brown-haired sophomore that Sean had seen around campus a few times. He seemed up Greg’s alley, although he was straight. Dancing as couples would have to suffice, at least for now.

The telepath contented himself with another beer and a napkin full of cookies. The music had a nice beat, and everyone was having a good time. He was used to being alone at parties, so it didn’t bother him.

A flapper with long dark hair slid into the seat next to him. “Hi, Stranger.”

Surprised, Sean turned, and then a smile crept across his lips. He knew her from his Intro Chemistry class. Her name was Daphne, and they were in a lab group together. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Last minute decision,” she said, returning his smile. “Are you here alone?”

“My friend is dancing.” The telepath pointed at Greg for emphasis; obviously, they were together, since their costumes were so carefully coordinated.

“Why aren’t you dancing too?”

“I don’t dance.” Sean emphasized that with a sip of his beer.

Daphne looked surprised. “Why not? Two left feet?”

He quickly shook his head. For all the deficiencies of his singing voice, and the awkwardness of his teenage years, he was graceful on his feet. “Just a bad experience.”

She stared at him, obviously expecting him to explain further. When he didn’t, she prompted, “It sounds like there’s a story there.”

“Maybe some other time. It’s personal.” He didn’t want to get into a long explanation about his parents and their social expectations, and how he didn’t have friends for over two years in junior high and early high school. It was Halloween; he wanted to enjoy Halloween.

“How about we dance?”

He was apologetic, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry. Not tonight.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, but he could tell that she was only teasing. “If you won’t dance and you won’t tell me why, then you owe me something special.”

“How special?”

“Mind-blowing.”

He gauged her silently for a moment, weighing his options. He chose to tread lightly, as he said, “You made that dress yourself.”

She looked slightly impressed. “Good guess.”

“Not a guess.” He nodded towards the student serving as the DJ; the song was coming to an end. “He’s going to put on Kung Fu Fighting next.”

Lo and behold, a few seconds later, the familiar introduction to that fast-paced, funky song started, and even more people crowded onto the dance floor.

Daphne laughed. “How’d you do that? Are you psychic or something?”

“Yes.” Sean finished off his beer and set the bottle down on the nearby table.

“Yes?” She inquired, dissatisfied with that. “I was joking.”

“I know. I wasn’t.” He spread his now-empty hands; one area that Hammel had failed him was that they hadn’t adequately taught the students how to bring up their powers in casual conversation. Perhaps the goal was that they could blend in well enough never to need to do so.

He kept his voice low, a feat that they could converse over the loud music. “I read minds.”

“You’re kidding!”

He shook his head. “I can. And I don’t do the ‘what am I thinking now’ bit.” Looking at her, he said, “You already did your lab report for Monday, but you haven’t touched the rest of your homework yet, and you had a burger and fries for supper.”

“That’s neat,” she told him with a smile. “How do you do it? Can you teach me?”

“It’s not a party trick. It’s...” How to explain this to non-metas? Most of the time, he couldn’t explain it to non-psychics. Only to Maggie, and to Robert, although Robert knew on his own. “It’s just who I am.”

Then, he added, “It’s loud here.”

She looked around. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Just let me tell my friend.” Sean got up and made his way through the dance floor, explaining to Greg that he was stepping out for a bit. Greg took a look at Daphne and smiled at him. “Good luck.”

The telepath rolled his eyes. “Thanks.” Then he returned to Daphne on the sofa. “Let’s go.”

“Once it stops being so loud, you can tell me all about it,” she said as they walked towards the door.

Sean thought that he might.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

October 31, 1976


Greg got to choose their costumes this year, since Sean had picked last year. Rather, Greg had made the telepath choose last year, but Sean was easygoing, and he knew that the blond wouldn’t choose anything so offensive that he would have to decline. Besides, Greg seemed to have something on his mind.

The idea hadn’t been complicated, in that they could make it themselves, with a bit of help from someone in the drama department. Fortunately, Greg was charismatic and could flirt his way to getting help from men and women alike.

Sacks in hand, they knocked on Daphne’s dorm door. “Hold on!” she called from inside.

When she finally opened the door, she started laughing.

“We are THE KILLER BEES!!” the two sophomore boys said in unison, fake buzzing and all. True to their catch phrase, each boy wore black tights – leggings, really – yellow shorts, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a yellow and black striped vest. On their heads they had two long, springy antenna with yellow-painted ping-pong balls on each tip.

“Who made you those?”

“We made them ourselves,” Greg said indignantly.

“Sara-Ann helped,” Sean cut in.

“I can tell.” Daphne ushered the two boys into her room. Thankfully, her roommate was out with some friends, so they had the dorm to themselves. “I need to finish getting ready,” she told them, as she shut the door.

Greg settled on the edge of Daphne’s bed, while Sean took the desk chair. From his position, Greg tweaked the telepath’s antenna and then smiled innocently at him, with a “wasn’t me” expression.

Wisely, Daphne ignored both of them as she puttered around her room, putting her costume together. When she finished, she looked just like Janis Joplin. Her hair, her outfit, her fuzzy headpiece, her soft smile but sad eyes, everything was perfect.

“What do you think?” She asked, as she donned the big, round sunglasses to tie the costume together.

“All you need is Hendrix,” Greg replied.

“You look great,” Sean added.

“Good,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “It took me a month to put everything together.

Sean believed that. She must have gone into every pawn shop and Army-Navy store in the Five Boroughs to find some of her accoutrements. But she was detail-oriented like that; he respected her for that trait among many others.

Daphne picked up her pillow case and slung it over her should. “Should we get going?”

“Yeah.” Greg hopped off her bed. More slowly, Sean rose to his feet; he was a bit worried that he might split his tights, as they weren’t the best fit.

“You’re going to win the contest for sure,” Sean told Daphne as they left her dorm room.

The library did a costume contest the evening of Halloween. First place was $20, which was nothing to sneeze at. That was a meal for four at a diner, or a meal for two at a fancy restaurant, or ten movie tickets.

He and Greg had opted to enter as a pair to split the money, if they won, since they wouldn’t get $20 each. However, now that he saw Daphne’s costume, Sean had no expectation of winning.

That was fine; he didn’t mind losing to people who were more deserving, and Daphne’s costume was much nicer than theirs were.

The librarians agreed, since Daphne won the costume. It was stiff competition, and the runner-up had been a really good vampire costume.

“I guess the drinks are on me tonight,” Daphne told her friends with a smile, as she pocketed her money. “Let’s get to the bar before all the tables are taken.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

October 29, 1977


“You’re a terrible influence.”

“And you’re no fun, so I guess we’re a good match.”

Sean rolled his eyes at his blond friend. “Your drafting teachers might not care what you do, but I can’t show up to class dressed like this.”

“Don’t you have Abnormal Psych on Mondays?”

“I’m not going to argue about this; I’ll go out Monday night but I’m not going to class in costume.”

“You could dress up and make your professors forget about it.”

Sean’s eyes flashed, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t joke about that.”

Greg realized he’d crossed a line and promptly backed off. He didn’t entirely understand everything about his friend’s powers, but he knew that the line between gentle ribbing and flat-out offensive was far thinner than in any other area of Sean’s life absent his religion. And, while the blond liked to tease, he didn’t like to hurt his friend, particularly since the telepath had never used either his powers or his Catholicism as a weapon against Greg, not even once, not with his outlandish flirtation or blunt demeanor. That earned an apology that almost nobody else in the blond boy’s life’s warranted. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Which meant that all was forgiven.

Greg looked down at his watch. “When is everyone else supposed to get here?”

“Soon.” Sean pulled on his wicker cowboy hat.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to switch?”

“You don’t think yellow is a flattering color on you? It matches your hair.”

“This hat makes me look like I’m at the Kentucky Derby. I think I’d suit you better.”

“You think making me look Southern would suit me? I’m from Long Island.” Thankfully, six years in Vermont during a critical time of his life, and now another two in Manhattan, had helped to undermine the Lahng Islahnd accent he might have developed otherwise.

Greg pouted, but a knock at the door interrupted him before he could get another word in.

Sean pulled his red bathrobe more tightly around his shoulders, covering his green scrubs. Behind him, Greg put on his straw hat.

Opening the door, he saw the rest of their group; everyone must have come together.

“We ran into Dave on the way here,” Daphne explained, for once apparently reading his mind rather than the reverse.

Everyone but Agatha wore matching green scrubs, the same type that Greg and Sean wore under their colorful terrycloth bathrobes. Dave wore a fishing hat with all manner of tackles and hooks poked through it and had a cigar in his hand. Daphne had dyed her hair blond and wore a pair of dog tags and a women’s army cap. Sandra had little wire-rimmed glasses and a watch cap, and she held a teddy bear in the crook of her arm. Agatha had glued stubble to her face, tucked her dark hair under a red beret, and she wore a red pleated skirt, a red blouse and sweater, and a blue ascot.

Sean smiled at all of his friends. “You all look great,” he assured them. He picked up his plunger accessory, and, behind him, Greg grabbed two martini glasses.

“All right, 4077th! Let’s get to the party.”

As they walked, his friends, under Greg’s initiation, began chanting, “Best care anywhere! Best care anywhere!”

It would be a great party.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

September 11, 2001.

((OOC: Content Warning for 9/11.))

He didn’t know when the plane struck the first tower, didn’t sense the thousands of minds crying out in fear, desperation, and pain before they were forever silenced. Separated by 300 miles, they were too far out of his telepathic range to glean even a hint of their suffering.

Seventeen minutes later, the second plane crashed into the south tower, choking the air with screams and black smoke while consigning even more to an early, terrifying death and countless more to grief and uncertainty.

It was a Tuesday, and all across the state, across the Northeast, school had been in session for about a week, after a relatively early Labor Day. Hammel, with its atypical schedule, had started classes more than a month ago, everyone settled into well-established patterns rather than memorizing the location of their homeroom and familiarizing themselves with the reading lists for the entire year. Sean had been in a session with a student struggling with body image and worsened by one of her side effects that caused them to retain water and left her bloated and lethargic.

Only when the bell rang, emptying the classrooms into the halls and leaving him alone in his office, did he have a few minutes to himself for the first time all morning, having gone from a staff meeting into back-to-back-to-back sessions. An opportunity to check his email and the news on AOL for the day.

Where he was confronted with those first horrific images - of the crashes and the fires, the thick billowing columns of smoke, and the buildings tumbling down.

His mind went blank, consumed by worry, his fingers dug into the side of the desk, and he would be grateful later that he had only the typical strength of a 44-year-old man, or else he surely would have left behind indentations if not crushed the desk altogether in his panic.

So many people lived there. People that he cared about -friends and family. Josh.

Without thinking, he snatched up the phone, fumbled with the receiver as he dialed his friend’s familiar number with greater speed and force than necessary.

No answer.

Not his cell, which went straight to voice mail. Not at his apartment, but court was already in session. Josh’s office was located higher up in Murray Hill, about five miles away if Sean recalled - more than a decade out of the City had softened his navigation a bit, as road maps through Pilot Ridge or to Burlington and the proper exits for I-89 and I-93 had eclipsed them by necessity. It was probably safer there, but the courts were so close to the towers, and what if Josh had been trapped?

Sean dialed Josh’s office number too but nobody picked up on his direct line. Sean tried the main line and managed to get the receptionist who was in tears, voice hitching as she stammered out the name of the firm and asked if she could take a message because “things are chaotic” and “it’s bad.”

Sean left his name and number, asked for Josh, and said that an email would do instead if she spoke to him.

It wasn’t only Josh he worried about, but the younger man’s face danced in his mind, heart pounding because he couldn’t reach him.

Greg and Nathan still lived in the City. Greg’s offices were way on the opposite side of the Borough, in Morningside Heights, and they didn’t live near Battery Park, but details were so sparse. Daphne taught at Fordham in the Bronx, but she and her family lived in Brooklyn, not directly over the Bridge but too close for comfort. All of the Bernsteins still resided in the City - Bobby and Charlie, Matt and Michelle and the boys, Talia and David and their three children. David and Talia might have been in court too…

Colin’s family lived up in Westchester and he and Kathleen and Ryan lived on the Island, but he worked in the City too. And what if Ryan had a field trip? It was early in the year but possible. What if Kathleen had business there? What if his own parents were in there, taking a day to themselves? His father had retired some years ago but they often took day trips. And so many of his other friends, Orion and his extended family mostly lived in Queens, and…

He dialed numbers and sent emails, fingers flew over the keyboard while he cradled the phone to his ear to multitask. Praying under his breath not to a deity but to any sense of consistency in the universe that they were okay. While the news updates grimly recounted the chaos and the death toll.

And nobody had heard from Josh.

Before lunch, Hammel had called an assembly, the administration decided it better to confront this directly than to take aside the students whose families lived in the Tri-State area and might be affected; extended family and kinship networks made it impossible to separate so neatly. Soberly, Claude delivered the news, stating that classes would continue for a sense of normality, but lunch was beginning early and students could call their parents. The fear, the tears the endless questions were mirrored by what the faculty felt and thought themselves, reflected Sean’s grim task, but he announced that there would be additional counseling and anyone who wanted to talk about it during lunch could meet in his office to do so.

He had lost his appetite, the images of people jumping from the windows of a burning building embedded in his mind, turned his stomach, and the fear for his loved ones, the uncertainty, transformed even the smallest pangs into bile.

His phone rang soon after he returned to his office. “Dr. Neville speaking,” he managed, far calmer and more confident than the roiling emotions brewing beneath the surface.

“Sean?” The voice, thick with some emotional combination that Sean couldn't even begin to untangle, threatened to send him into tears of relief.

“Josh, thank God you’re okay.”