The door opens with the kind of deliberate authority that announces Important People doing Important Things. Dr. Dale enters first, followed by what can only be described as the police force's answer to a Marvel casting call.
The first officer is a woman who looks like she benchpresses small cars for fun. Her uniform strains against muscles that probably have their own Social Security numbers, and her black eyes sweep the room with the methodical precision of someone trained to spot trouble before it spots her. Everything about her screams "competent professional who could break you in half without spilling her coffee."
Behind her trails a guy who clearly drew the short straw in the genetic lottery. He's got the kind of forgettable face that would disappear in a crowd of three people, but what makes him memorable is the nervous energy radiating off him like heat from a busted radiator. He's fidgeting with his uniform, checking his equipment, and generally broadcasting "rookie cop trying not to embarrass himself in front of his training officer" in neon letters.
They position themselves at the foot of my bed with military precision—well, she does. He sort of shuffles into place like he's not entirely sure where he belongs.
"Officers, here are Zephyr and his mother, Mrs. Quillan," Dr. Dale announces with the weary professionalism of someone who's done this dance a hundred times.
The woman extends her hand toward Mom with crisp efficiency. "Captain Gale at your service, ma'am."
Her handshake probably comes with its own liability waiver, but Mom handles it with the grace of someone who's dealt with worse things than intimidating police officers.
"And my colleague, Officer—"
"Alan Calvin. Nice to meet you, ma'am."
The rookie cuts off his superior with the kind of social awkwardness that makes me question the police academy's screening process. But here's where things get interesting—and by interesting, I mean rage-inducing.
Officer Calvin extends his hand toward Mom, and something in his demeanor shifts. His voice drops half an octave, his smile becomes this weird approximation of charm, and his body language screams "available bachelor looking for love in all the wrong places."
Are you fucking kidding me right now?
This motherfucker is trying to flirt with my mom. In a hospital room. While I'm lying here looking like I went ten rounds with a garbage disposal. The sheer audacity is so breathtaking I'm momentarily speechless, which is probably for the best because my first impulse is to launch myself out of this bed and introduce his face to the nearest solid surface.
My enhanced awareness picks up every micro-expression, every subtle shift in tone. Before the accident, I might have noticed something was off but couldn't put my finger on it. Now I can practically read the thought bubble over his head: "Single mother, probably vulnerable, maybe I can get her number if I play this right."
Look, I get it. Mom is objectively beautiful. She's got that understated elegance that would make magazine models weep with envy if she had the time or energy to actually dress up. But juggling multiple jobs while raising two kids as a single parent doesn't leave much room for the kind of self-care that catches male attention. Dad bailed when my little sister Ashley was born, and since then, Mom's been too busy keeping our family afloat to worry about dating.
Technically, she can see whoever she wants. She's an adult, she deserves happiness, all that mature rational bullshit. But that doesn't mean I have to sit here and watch some bargain-bin Romeo try to use my assault as an opening line.
"Focus, Officer Calvin. We are on duty."
Captain Gale's voice cuts through the air like a blade, and I could kiss her for it. She clearly caught the same vibe I did, and unlike me, she has the authority to shut it down.
"Uh... did I do something wrong?" Calvin scratches his head with the confused innocence of someone who genuinely doesn't understand why hitting on a victim's mother during an official investigation might be inappropriate.
Captain Gale sighs with the patience of a saint dealing with a particularly slow child. "Just let me do the talking. Observe and take notes."
That settles it—he's definitely a rookie getting his first taste of real police work. Typical training scenario: pair the newbie with a seasoned veteran and hope some competence rubs off before he does something career-ending.
Calvin mumbles an apology and fumbles for his pen and notebook, looking like a kid who just got scolded in front of the cool kids. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
"So, first of all, we'd like to apologize for rushing this," Captain Gale begins, her attention now fully professional. "But lately we're somewhat busy. As you can see, we had to come take your statement as quickly as possible."
"No worries, Captain. I just hope it won't take too long. My son is still recovering." Mom squeezes my hand, and I draw strength from the contact. She's been my anchor through all of this, and having her here makes facing these questions feel manageable.
"Don't worry, ma'am. We'll finish as soon as possible." Captain Gale's gaze settles on me with laser focus. "So, Mr. Zephyr, do you know what date it is today?"
That's an unexpected opener. She's probably testing whether I'm mentally coherent enough to give reliable testimony. Fair enough—head injuries can scramble your brain in creative ways, and she needs to know if I'm a credible witness or just another confused patient babbling nonsense.
According to Mom and Dr. Dale, I've been unconscious for two days. Sade and his discount goon squad jumped me Monday night, which makes today...
"Wednesday," I croak, my voice still rough from disuse.
"Correct." She nods with the satisfaction of someone checking boxes on a mental list. "So you were found unconscious two days ago in a back alley. Do you remember what happened that night?"
And there it is. The million-dollar question.
I've been running scenarios in my head since I woke up, analyzing every possible outcome with the kind of clarity that still feels alien. My enhanced mental processing has laid out two distinct paths, each with its own risks and rewards.
Option One: Full Truth
Tell them everything. Sade Henderson, Tyler, Brian—the whole sordid story. Name names, describe the assault, paint a complete picture of what happened in that alley. It's the obvious choice, the moral choice, the one that any reasonable person would make.
But here's the problem: Sade's dad has connections in this town deeper than the local water table. Mr. Henderson plays golf with the mayor, sponsors half the little league teams, and has the kind of social influence that turns criminal charges into minor inconveniences. We'd get dragged into a legal battle that could last months, burning through money we can't afford on lawyers who might not even win.
Even if we somehow got a conviction, what then? I become the kid who got jumped and then snitched. Sade's already massive ego grows another head when he realizes he's practically untouchable. My school life transforms from merely terrible to actively hellish, with his entire social circle treating me like a walking target.
Option Two: Strategic Amnesia
Claim I don't remember the details. Play the confused victim with convenient head trauma. It's not technically lying—I'm just being selective about which memories I choose to share.
But here's the beautiful part: Sade doesn't know what I remember. He'll spend every day wondering if today's the day I suddenly recall his face, his voice, his name. If he has even a shred of self-preservation instinct, he'll avoid me like I'm carrying a contagious disease.
This option gives me flexibility. I can confront him privately, threaten to recover my memories if he doesn't leave me alone. Or better yet, I can use his fear as leverage. A little strategic blackmail never hurt anyone—well, except the person being blackmailed, but Sade deserves whatever he gets.
The old me would have gone with Option One. The old me believed in justice, fairness, doing the right thing even when it hurt. But the old me also got his ass kicked in an alley and nearly died for his trouble.
The new me is more pragmatic.
"I... don't remember much." I let uncertainty creep into my voice, playing up the confusion of someone trying to piece together traumatic memories. Captain Gale is sharp—she's probably dealt with more liars than a divorce attorney. A complete fabrication won't fool her, but selective amnesia? That's believable.
"I was going home from school. I remember taking a shortcut through an alley." I pause, as if the effort of recollection is physically painful. "But I got ambushed by three people."
"Did you see their faces?" Captain Gale asks with professional patience.
"No, not really. The alley was dimly lit. And I think they were wearing masks or something." The lie slides out smoother than I expected. Apparently, enhanced intelligence comes with improved deception skills as a bonus feature.
"What about their voices? Did you recognize any of them?"
"It was raining, and I was pretty shaken up to be honest. I didn't really pay attention to their voices." Another lie, but delivered with just the right amount of embarrassed admission.
Captain Gale's expression doesn't change, but I catch the subtle shift in her posture. She's processing information, filing away details, building a mental model of what happened.
"The evidence doesn't point to a robbery gone wrong, seeing as we found your backpack with your laptop inside in the vicinity."
She doesn't say the rest, but I hear it loud and clear: This was personal. Someone wanted to hurt you specifically.
The fact that they found my bag is interesting, but something's missing from her inventory.
"Captain, I was riding a bicycle that day. I remember dismounting it and backing against the wall, hoping they were just thieves who would take my bike and leave me alone."
Her frown deepens. "We didn't find any bike at the scene. I'll have to ask the ambulance crew. Maybe it is a robbery gone wrong after all, but why they didn't take your backpack eludes me."
She crosses her arms, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. A missing bicycle changes the narrative—it suggests theft as a motive, even if the execution was sloppy.
"Can you describe your bike for us? Preferably any peculiar marks that can identify it as yours?"
I give them the basics: make, model, color, and the one detail that makes it unmistakably mine—custom Pikachu-themed handlebar grips that I installed last summer in a fit of nostalgic enthusiasm.
"That will definitely help. If we successfully locate the bike, we might find the culprits behind your predicament." She adjusts her cap—a gesture that somehow manages to be both casual and authoritative. "We'll also check for CCTV security cameras around the vicinity, if there are any."
I really hope Sade isn't dumb enough to keep my bike after beating me half to death. Though given his track record of brilliant decision-making, I'm not entirely confident in his ability to think that far ahead.
"Well, we'll leave you to recover. Thank you for your time." Captain Gale extends her hand again, and Mom shakes it with genuine gratitude.
"You're welcome, Captain."
Then Officer Calvin steps forward for his own farewell handshake, and that stupid smile creeps back onto his face. He tilts his head slightly, maintaining eye contact with Mom just a beat too long, and I swear I can see the wheels turning in his hormone-addled brain.
The audacity of this man continues to astound me. I want nothing more than to smack that expression off his face, but assaulting a police officer probably won't improve my situation. Instead, I settle for mentally filing him under "People Who Need to Learn About Boundaries" and promise myself I'll find a way to make his life complicated if he keeps this shit up.
They exit with Dr. Dale, leaving Mom and me alone with the lingering scent of cheap cologne and professional authority.
"Well," Mom says, settling back into her chair with visible relief, "that went better than I expected."
I squeeze her hand, partly for comfort and partly to anchor myself. The lies came so easily it's almost frightening. This new mental clarity is like having a superpower, but superpowers come with responsibilities—and the temptation to abuse them.
For now, though, I've bought myself time and flexibility. Sade doesn't know what I know, the police have just enough information to keep looking without focusing on the truth, and I have options.
The old Zephyr would feel guilty about deceiving the authorities. The new Zephyr recognizes that sometimes the system fails, and when it does, you have to create your own justice.
I just hope I'm smart enough to handle the consequences of what I've just set in motion.