Afterward we kept quiet. There wasn't much more to say, especially since my grandson clearly wouldn't talk. We gave him space—time to grieve. We all needed that.
Natalie and Frank clung to Gwen—tightly. I think the moment was a wake-up call for them as parents: anything can happen. You never know when something precious can be taken from you.
Despite the tension, Carl and Sandra kept Beatrice busy with patty-cake, their hands clapping too softly for the game to be fun. I sat a few feet away, staring at my grandson. He was laying back on a hospital pillow, pitch-black hair matted, his dark-green eyes emptied out. He hadn't said a word. I tried to picture the inside of his silence—how his… how his mother died.
I looked down at his hand, still gripping that compass. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. It almost looked like...
Thankfully, a doctor entered the room soon after.
"How is everyone this morning?" A—Dr. Rao—I think, asked, scanning the room. His gaze lingered on Ben, pity softening his eyes. Beatrice paused the forced patty-cake and waved. Gwen, in her mother's arms, didn't move; she lifted a hand in a sleepy wave and drifted right back to sleep. The rest of us murmured hello—everyone except Ben.
He stared into space, unreachable. I wished I could lift whatever pain was lodged inside him. I couldn't—but given time, I would try. We'd figure it out, one step at a time.
"I'm here to give a couple of updates—whenever you're ready," he said, polite. Sandra gathered Beatrice and whispered that they could play later. When everyone settled, I gave the doctor a small nod.
He glanced around. "First, as I mentioned, his physical injuries have been addressed…" He paused—the unspoken part, the mind. "His legs will take three to six months to heal, and he'll need help regaining strength. Bruises and most lacerations should fade in the coming weeks. The cut on his left eye may leave a permanent scar." His tone turned almost solemn.
"Beyond that—and some physical therapy—he should be cleared once Social Services meets with you. All things considered, he's surprisingly healthy. Given everything—he's in better shape than we expected, and we hope it remains that way" He walked out of the room respectfully, leaving us with our thoughts.
Silence hit hard. The circumstances settled on all of us at once. I let it stand and thought about what needed arranging.
"I think Ben should stay with me—at least until his legs heal. After that…" I hesitated, already bracing for the argument. I took a breath. "He should live with you and Frank. It'll be easier for you to help him, and he can grow up in something steadier." I finally turned to meet Natalie's surprised glare.
We sat in that hospital room, eyes locked. For a second, all anyone could hear was the air vent blowing cold into the room. Natalie opened her mouth to speak——but Gwen stirred, stretching with a tired smile. "I think that would be an amazing idea. Mommy can help him, and I can finally have someone to play with while Ken is at summer camp," she said, all childish glee, her short hair fluttering as she moved.
Natalie looked down at Gwen in her lap and sighed. The rest of us chuckled—everyone except Ben, who, for the first time since he woke up, looked at someone other than me or the wall. A small success, I'd say. Good job, Gwen.
"It's a great idea, right, Mommy?" she asked, peering up into her mother's eyes. Frank smiled beside her, clearly enjoying the moment. At that point we all knew Natalie would relent. And—lo and behold—seconds later:
"I know what you're doing, Max. You too, Gwen… but fine. He can stay with us while I help point him in the right direction. But only until Ken gets back. Then Carl and Sandra will have to be the ones to… welcome him," she said, finality in her tone.
I sighed and nodded. I knew this was as good a deal as we'd get from her.
Without warning, Gwen and Beatrice stood—much to everyone's surprise—and walked over to Ben. They just stood there, waiting for him to notice. It took a second, but slowly, as if something new had slid into the corner of his vision, he turned his head toward them.
He didn't say a word, didn't wave, didn't even blink. Just looked—stared through them, almost. For a heartbeat I swore I saw confusion flicker across his face. Then, as if pulled back into the dark, he began to turn his head toward the wall again.
"Hi! It's nice to meet you, and I'm sorry for your loss." Beatrice spoke first, surprisingly. Her light-green eyes matched Gwen's, bright with curiosity.
"Yeah, same. I don't know what happened, but you're clearly upset. Do you maybe want to talk about it?" Gwen asked with a shy smile and a little shrug.
Ben, all things considered, handled the bombardment pretty well—if you consider staring at them handling it. This time, though, his nose scrunched and his brows lifted. Confusion. For some reason I felt these two might be exactly what he needed to crack a little of that shell.
"Also, what's that compass you're holding? It must be important if you're gripping it like that," Gwen asked, glancing at his clenched hand. As if drawn to it, she reached out and tapped the compass face with her fingertip.
Time seemed to slow. Ben's face contorted—not in displeasure, like I'd expected when someone touched something precious, but in fear. Panic. The same panic jolted through me. I knew that compass from somewhere and—then it hit me. Who I'd given it to, for emergency purposes. What it was, in particular. Shit.
I shot forward to pull Gwen's hand away, but Ben moved first. He reached out—his IV line went taut—and caught her wrist. Then, to everyone's surprise, he let go, gently swatted her hand aside, and looked at her with that cold, empty stare back in place. He shook his head hard. No.
Knock.
Knock.
"Social Services—may we come in?"
As if on cue, I backed off and took my seat. Gwen and Beatrice did the same, nestling back into their mothers' laps—suddenly prim—as if they knew we had to look put together, which we were, and that Social Services didn't clock the previous moment, and make it something it wasn't.
The door eased open on a sigh of hinges. Two people stepped in—badges, neutral smiles, a faint fog of hand sanitizer trailing them.
"Good morning. I'm Ms. Valadis with Social Services, and this is Mr. Hsu. We're very sorry for your loss," the woman said, voice soft but practiced. "Is now an okay time?"
I stood partway, enough to be polite. "It is."
She took in the room quickly—Gwen curled against Natalie, Frank's arm around them both, Carl and Sandra with Beatrice, and Ben… folded into himself, eyes fixed somewhere only he could see. Her gaze paused there, gentle, then moved on.
"We'll keep this brief," Mr. Hsu said, opening a folder. "We're here to confirm discharge plans, emergency contacts, and permanent placement so Ben has support while he recovers."
"Max," I said, tapping my chest. "Grandfather. Ben will stay with me until his legs heal. After that"—I flicked a glance at Natalie—"we've agreed he'll live with his aunt and uncle."
Natalie gave a tight nod. "We can make room."
"Thank you," Ms. Valadis said. "We'll need to formalize that with a permanent kinship placement today, and since you are all related to the mother in question, we trust there wont be any need for follow up." She asked, as I shook my head with a polite smile. She then stepped closer, slow enough not to spook anyone. "Ben? I'm Ana. I won't ask you questions right now. I just want you to know you're safe. We'll do the paperwork with your family unless you want to be part of it."
Ben didn't look at her. Didn't look at anyone. The IV pump ticked. The vent hummed.
Ms. Valadis didn't push. "All right." She turned back to me. "Mr. Tennyson, do you have stairs at home? Rails in the shower? We can arrange a temporary ramp and add PT and trauma counseling referrals to the discharge plan."
"That won't be necessary," I said. "I live in a state of the art Rv, and, yes it is wheelchair accessible. I can handle this."
She jotted notes. "Any firearms or medications in this... Rv?"
"Locked," I said.
"Good." She slid a pair of forms onto the rolling tray. "This authorizes us to coordinate services with the hospital and the school. This one establishes you as the permanent caregiver."
I took the pen. My hand hovered. The compass flashed at the edge of my vision, dull brass catching the overhead light. I felt the old fear rise again—colder than the AC, older than this room.
"Ben," I said quietly, easing closer to his bed. "Buddy, can you do me a favor?" I kept my eyes on his, not the thing in his fist. "Hold on to that for me. Don't press it, don't twist it, don't let anyone touch it—not even you—until it's just you and me. Okay?"
His lashes didn't flutter. Then, slow as a tide, his gaze slid from my face to my mouth, then down to my hand braced on the rail. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The smallest nod.
"Thank you," I said, as if he'd handed me a glass of water and not a breath of relief.
"Is that a compass?" Mr. Hsu asked, mild curiosity only.
"A keepsake," I said. "From his mother." The partial lie tasted like copper. I signed the first form.
Ms. Valadis let the moment pass. "We'll coordinate with the discharge nurse. Physical therapy will come by with a schedule, and we'll arrange a wheelchair and crutches sized for him. For counseling, we work with a trauma-informed clinic. We'll never force him to talk, but we'll make sure he has a person to talk to when he's ready."
I looked up at her. "I appreciate it, but that wont be necessary, I already have a therapist in mind." I said, sending Natalie a cheeky wink.
Gwen slid off Natalie's lap, the IV poles and paperwork forest suddenly huge around her. "Will he come home today?"
"Likely not today," Ms. Valadis said, kneeling to meet her eyes. "But soon. And when he does, he'll need quiet and help with the big things. Can you be his helper sometimes?"
Gwen's solemn little nod nearly broke me. Beatrice mirrored it, her hand finding Sandra's.
"Last items," Mr. Hsu said gently. "We need copies of IDs, and any legal documents you have—birth certificate, guardianship, insurance. If you don't have them now, we'll follow up."
"I'll bring what I have," I said. "The rest we'll find."
Ms. Valadis closed the folder. "We'll step out to scan these and call the PT team. We'll be just down the hall if you need us." She gave Ben one more glance—no pressure in it, just presence—and then they were gone, the door giving that soft hydraulic hiss again.
The room breathed.
I moved back to my chair and angled it so only Ben could see my face. "We'll talk soon," I said under my breath. "Just you and me." I kept my voice easy, the way you talk to a skittish animal you love.
His fingers tightened around the compass, the tendons in his wrist standing like cords. He stared at the wall again—but he didn't move his thumb.
Good.
...
After a while we got confirmation from Social Services that everything was straightened out. Now we just had to prepare for the funeral and set a date… That could wait. Ben demanded more attention. And I didn't know if I was ready to think about all that yet.
A nurse came in with a tray—new meds, a check of the IV site, the soft ritual of vitals—and left us with the hush again. Frank volunteered to take the kids down for hot chocolate. Sandra went to call the florist. Natalie stepped into the hallway to argue with an insurance rep. Little by little the room emptied until it was just me and Ben and the steady beep that insisted time was still moving.
I rolled my chair closer so I wouldn't have to raise my voice. "All right, kiddo," I said. "Just us."
He didn't turn his head, but the muscles around his eyes tightened. He was listening.
"Let's make it simple," I murmured. "Blink once for yes, twice for no." I waited. "Can you do that?"
One slow blink.
"Good." My throat worked. "You remember what I said about the compass? Not to press it. Not to let anyone touch it. Not even you. Until it's just you and me."
Another single blink. His fingers tightened around the brass.
"Okay." I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Did she give it to you?" The word she landed between us like a small stone.
A flinch. Then—after a long beat—one blink.
"Right," I said. "I figured." My hand found the rail. "Did she tell you what it is?"
This time he stared hard at the wall. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Two blinks.
"Didn't think so." I rubbed at a nick on the bed rail with my thumb. "It's not really a compass," I said. "It's… a failsafe. A kind of weapon. It looks simple so folks don't ask questions." I caught myself and stopped. "You don't need the details now. What matters is this: it can help, and it can hurt. We're going to be careful."
His gaze slid to my mouth, like he was reading the shapes more than the words. I kept going, slow.
"If it gets warm. If it hums. If it lights up—don't touch it. Don't show it. Tap the bed rail twice, like this." I knocked twice for him to hear. "I'll come."
He blinked once. Then, after a pause, he lifted his hand a fraction, enough to show me the face of the thing cupped in his palm. A hairline seam ran around the bezel. No glow. No hum. Just the dull shine of something old and stubborn.
"Good," I whispered. "You're doing just fine."
His hand drifted back to the sheets. For a moment I thought that was the end of it. Then the tip of his index finger traced a small circle against the blanket, slow and deliberate, and tapped once in the middle.
A button. He knew there was a button.
"I see it," I said. "We leave it alone."
He stared at me a long time. Then—careful—he blinked once.
The door cracked and Natalie leaned in, whispering like the room were a church. "PT's on their way," she said. "Kids are with Frank. You need anything?"
"I'm good," I said. "We're all right."
She hesitated, eyes going to Ben, then to his hand. She didn't ask. Bless her for that. "Two minutes," she said, and slipped out again.
I scooted closer, close enough that only he could hear. "I'm going to ask one more thing. You don't have to answer. Blink once if you want me to hold it for now—just for now—so the kids don't get curious again. Blink twice if you want to keep it."
He didn't move. The beeps measured a dozen heartbeats. Then he looked at his fist, then at me, and blinked twice.
"Okay," I said, and that was that. "You keep it. Under the blanket, tucked close. If anyone asks, it's a keepsake. From your mom. You can hate me for saying that later."
His throat bobbed. His lips parted as if he might try a word. Nothing came. Still—movement.
I risked it and set two fingers lightly against the back of his hand. "We're going to get you home," I said. "We'll take this one hallway at a time."
He didn't pull away.
A knock came, polite and practiced. A physical therapist in navy scrubs poked in her head. "Hello, I'm Priya with PT. We're just going to try sitting you up today, see how you tolerate it." Her tone was bright, soft around the edges. She clocked me and lowered her voice. "We can come back if now's not good."
"It's fine," I said, and pulled the chair back to give her room. "He's ready."
Priya moved like someone who had done this a thousand times—cords managed, cast supported, straps buckled with quiet clicks. "Ben, I'll talk you through everything I'm doing," she said, hands visible. "If something hurts, tap twice on the bed."
She eased the head of the bed up, then slid an arm behind his shoulders. He tensed, breath catching, but he let her guide him to the edge. The IV line bowed and settled. The world didn't end. That felt like a miracle.
"Good," she said. "That's good." She set his feet on a stool, checked for dizziness, waited. "We'll stop here today. Tomorrow we'll try a few weight shifts. Small steps."
When she was done and he was reclined again, I thanked her. She smiled at Ben, not through him. "You did hard work," she said, and meant it.
After she left, the room felt larger. I slid back to my spot. "You did hard work," I echoed, and gave him a small salute. "You keep that thing close. We'll deal with it later. Just you and me."
His fingers tightened once more, a pulse through tendons and bone. This time, when he looked away, it wasn't to the wall. It was to the window, where a slice of late sun had found the metal of the bed and turned it into a thin line of gold.
The funeral could wait. For now, this was the work.
...
Two days later the room looked smaller, like it had been shrinking toward the moment we'd have to leave it.
Discharge started early. A nurse wheeled in a stack of supplies and a smile that had seen a lot of families try to be brave. "Morning, Mr. Tennyson. Morning, Ben." She ran through the list: meds in a brown paper bag with our name sharpied on the side, wound-care instructions, PT schedule. She checked his casts, changed the dressing near his eye with the kind of care that doesn't make a show of itself.
"Any questions?" she asked.
"I'll think of a dozen on the drive home," I said.
"Then call," she told me, meaning it.
Natalie arrived with a duffel I recognized from my hall closet—sweats, a soft T-shirt, socks that didn't slip. Frank was with her, carrying the wheelchair like it weighed less than the moment. Sandra and Carl texted from the lobby: Kids made a sign. Beatrice spelled his name right the second time. Gwen had added three hearts and a crooked star. I could picture it.
We dressed Ben slow. Every seam felt like a negotiation. He tolerated the movement, jaw tight, eyes on the ceiling tiles as if counting them might get him through. When we slid the hoodie on, I tugged the pocket open and kept my voice small.
"Same rules, kiddo," I murmured. "Keep it tucked. No pressing. No showing. Just until it's you and me."
A beat. Then one blink.
Good.
Ms. Valadis from Social Services popped in with a final folder and the kind of steady presence you don't notice until it's gone. She handed me copies of the forms. "You have my number. Call for anything—big or small."
"Thank you," I said, and meant it.
She crouched to Ben's level without making a moment of it. "We're not going to ask you for anything today," she said. "You did a lot just by being here. By surviving." She stood, gave us all a nod, and slipped out.
PT swung by for a last run-through—safe transfers, posture, where to put hands so you help and not hurt. "We'll see you in three days at your residence," Priya said. "I'll go slow. I promise." She looked at Ben, not through him, the way she always did. "You're allowed to be frustrated," she added. "You're also allowed to be proud."
We signed the last line on the last page. Frank took the duffel. Natalie fussed a blanket over Ben's legs, then stopped herself, catching the look I gave her and turning it into a small, rueful smile. We were all learning our jobs.
The nurse returned with a transport tech and a clipboard. "All right, team," the tech said, cheerful but not loud. "Ready to roll?"
I took the handles of the wheelchair. "Ready."
The hallway felt colder than the room. Machines beeped in other rooms, voices murmured behind curtains, a TV down the hall laughed at a joke no one here could hear. At the elevator, Gwen and Beatrice were waiting with their parents, clutching a piece of poster board like it might fly away. When the doors opened, they held it up: WELCOME HOME BEN in wobbling block letters, the hearts and crooked star crowded around his name. Beatrice had drawn a compass that looked like a cookie. It made my stomach flip and settle again.
Gwen wiggled her fingers in a tiny wave. Ben's eyes found the poster, then her, then the floor. He didn't look away as fast as he used to. That was something.
"Nice sign," Frank said, because somebody had to say something normal.
We made it to the lobby in a slow parade. The air smelled like cafeteria coffee and lemon cleaner. A volunteer at the desk gave us a smile that managed to be both kind and practiced. Outside, the day was one of those too-bright ones where the sun looks new-minted and the asphalt gives back heat in waves.
"Curbside pickup?" the tech asked.
"Silver SUV," Natalie said, pointing. Frank jogged ahead to open doors and flatten seats. Sandra and Carl shepherded the girls toward the exit with promises of snacks if they didn't touch anything that beeped.
We transferred Ben from chair to car with the care of a tiny ceremony. He grunted once, not from pain so much as effort, and let the seatbelt cross his chest without flinching. I tucked the blanket around his legs and made sure the hoodie pocket lay smooth. He kept his hand inside it, fingers curved in a way that made me trust him all over again.
The tech loaded the wheelchair. The nurse did one last check of the IV site and the discharge paperwork, then stepped back, giving us space to be a family.
"Call if you need us," she said.
"We will," Natalie answered. She reached in and touched Ben's shoulder—just a brush, nothing that asked for anything back. He didn't pull away.
I leaned into the car, bracing one hand on the frame so my voice didn't have to travel. "Home, kiddo," I said. "One hallway at a time."
He looked past me toward the parking lot, where a gust of wind made the trees shiver and sent a strip of hospital receipts skittering like a pale lizard. His mouth didn't move, but his eyes did—left, right, taking in the sky, the line of gold on the hood, the shape of a day that wasn't made of tiles and beeps.
"Ready?" Frank called from the driver's seat. I was right behind him in my Rv, Carl and Sandra behind me in their own four door.
I nodded. "Let's go."
I closed the door soft. I watched the SUV as It eased away from the curb. In the side mirror the hospital slid backward, glass and concrete catching the sun like it always would whether we were here or not.
I settled into the driver seat and twisted around to see him, through my side window. He was staring at the window, not the wall. His hand was still in the pocket, still, the tendons quiet under skin. The compass—and everything else it was—stayed a circle of brass in the dark.
The girls' sign lay across Gwen's knees, the crooked star bumping with every turn. Sandra and Carl pulled in behind us, a small convoy heading toward a house that suddenly felt like more than walls. Somewhere in the middle of all that motion, my phone buzzed with a message from the funeral home. I let it buzz. Some roads you don't take yet.
We hit the light at the edge of the lot. It turned green.
We drove home.