Michael's phone buzzed on the hospital tray.
The screen lit up with Tyler's ninth text of the morning: "10 mins away!! Burritos secured!!"
He stared at the cracked screen, his stomach growling but his throat tight. The smell of antiseptic and old food made the room feel smaller.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Laughter. Their laughter.
The door burst open before he could pretend to be asleep.
"Yo! Champion in the house!" Tyler barged in, his catcher's mitt still hanging from his backpack. Behind him trailed two freshmen from the team—Jake and Luis—holding foil-wrapped burritos and a red envelope.
Tyler's smile froze when he saw Michael's bandages. "Dude. You look… uh… alive!"
Michael forced a grin. "Should've seen me last week. Had a sweet beard going."
The room went quiet. Jake and Luis hovered near the door, eyes darting between Michael's missing arm and the heart monitor.
Tyler cleared his throat and tossed the burrito onto the bed. "Extra carnitas, just how you like. No guac though—Luis ate it all in the car."
"You said it was free!" Luis protested, face reddening.
"It's fine," Michael said, unwrapping the burrito with his left hand. The smell of spicy pork hit him like a brick. He hadn't tasted real food in weeks. His first bite was too big, and hot sauce dripped down his wrist. Tyler looked away.
"So uh… Coach says hi," Tyler said, slumping into the plastic chair by the bed. "Fundraiser money's in the envelope. $1,200. Not bad, right?"
Michael chewed slowly. $1,200 wouldn't even cover the ambulance ride. "Thanks," he mumbled.
"They're doing another car wash next weekend!" Jake piped up, then winced like he'd said something wrong.
Luis snorted. "Katie Martinez said she's going to a bikini."
"She asked about you," Tyler added, too eagerly. "Said she's praying for you."
Michael's jaw tightened. Katie—the peppy sociology major who'd dumped him after the accident.
I just can't handle this, Mike. You're not… you anymore.
Tyler shot the others a warning look. "Anyway, eat up. We got extra."
They crowded around the bed, unwrapping burritos and talking over each other. Michael half-listened, picking at his food. They talked about games he'd missed, parties, a new recruit with a killer slider. Normal stuff. Life going on without him.
Jake took out his phone. "Yo, check this out." He flipped it around—a video of their last game. Michael watched his past self wind up on the mound, right arm a blur as the ball smacked into Tyler's mitt. The crowd roared.
"Strike three, baby!" Tyler laughed. "Man, we need you back out there."
Michael's phantom arm twitched. "Back there with that?"
The room went quiet. Marcus stared at his shoes.
Tyler crumpled his foil into a ball. "They got prosthetics, y'know. Robot arms. Coach said—"
"Stop." Michael's voice cracked. He hated the way they looked at him—like he was made of glass. "Just drop it, okay?"
An alarm beeped on the heart monitor, echoing his racing pulse.
Tyler raised his hands. "Chill, dude. We're just saying… there's options."
"Options." Michael snorted. "You paying my bills? Insurance won't cover a prosthetic. This—" he waved the envelope, "—won't even cover the MRI."
Tyler shifted uncomfortably. "We'll get you more, bro. Whatever you need."
Michael's phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a notification:
[Background Report: 72% Complete]
He flipped the phone facedown.
"You gotta see the new kid they got replacing you," Jake said, leaning back. "Throws like a grandma. Coach yells at him every practice."
The burrito turned to cement in Michael's gut.
Luis snorted. "Last week he hit the dugout on a wild pitch. Everyone called him 'Rainbow Arm' for—"
"Stop," Michael said.
The room went silent again.
Tyler rubbed his neck. "Sorry, man. We didn't mean…"
"It's fine." Michael wiped his hand on the sheet, leaving a greasy stain. "How's the team?"
"Sucks without you," Tyler said. "Lost to Vanderbilt 9-2 last week. Bullpen's a disaster."
Michael stared at his stump. Three months ago, he'd struck out Vanderbilt's entire lineup. Now he couldn't even open a ketchup packet.
Jake's phone dinged. He glanced at it and elbowed Luis. "Uh… we gotta get to practice. Feel better, Mike."
They left without looking back.
Tyler stayed, picking at the chair's cracked vinyl. "Your mom called me," he said quietly.
Michael froze. "Why?"
"Said you are not returning her messages. She's… worried."
Of course she's worried, Michael thought. She'd taken out a second mortgage on their trailer to pay his first semester. Now he was here—broken, useless, and burning cash on a fake samurai girl.
"Don't tell her," Michael said.
"About…?" Tyler gestured vaguely at the hospital room.
"Any of it."
"Mike—"
"Just don't."
Tyler sighed and stood. "Call her, okay? She's your mom."
Michael stared at the half-eaten burrito, grease soaking through the foil.
No response.
Tyler paused at the door, his mitt dangling limply at his side. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across Michael's face. For a moment, neither spoke. The heart monitor's steady beeps filled the silence like a ticking clock.
Michael's chest tightened—this wasn't him. He wasn't the guy who moped in hospital beds while life passed by. On the mound, he'd stare down batters with the bases loaded, ice in his veins. But here? He felt like a scrap of paper tossed in a storm.
"Take care, man."
Tyler sighed, then grabbed the door handle, ready to leave. The room felt heavy with everything left unsaid.
"Wait," Michael said.
Tyler turned, eyebrows raised. "Hmm?"
"The car wash. Where's it gonna be?"
"Same as always. Gas station off Route 9. Why?"
Michael sat up straighter, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. "Get a camera crew."
"A what?"
"Or just someone with a decent phone. Good lighting. Maybe a mic." Ideas tumbled out faster than he could organize them. "We'll film it. Make a video. Post it online."
Tyler blinked. "Like… a promo?"
"No. Like a story." Michael gestured at the envelope of cash on the tray. "$1,200 is nothing. But if we make this go viral? Get shares? Donations?"
Tyler scratched his neck, considering. "You want us to… cry on camera?"
"No! Just—look, remember when Joey Zanetti broke his leg sophomore year? His mom made that GoFundMe page with the hospital selfies. Raised like $30k in a week."
Michael's pulse quickened. The numbness that had plagued him for months began to crack, replaced by the familiar thrill of strategizing a play.
"We gotta make them care. Show the struggle. The grit. All that inspirational crap."
Tyler snorted. "Since when are you Mr. Hashtag-Blessed?"
"Since I need $200k for a prosthetic arm!" The words hung in the air,. Michael flushed, glancing at his stump. "Just… get a crowd. Or whatever. But film it right. Make it matter."
Tyler stared at him, then grinned slowly. "Are you going to post it online? I don't know you run a channel. Thought you hate that social media stuff."
"Then I better love it now. I'll create a YouWatch Channel today, and that's going to be my first video." Michael shrugged. "Call it… One-Armed Ace or something dumb."
"Dude. That's genius." Tyler pulled out his phone, thumbs flying. "I'll text the group chat. We'll get banners, a donation link—maybe set up live streams during the car wash. Coach'll lose it, but who cares? This could be huge!"
Michael sagged against the pillows, exhaustion mixing with something he hadn't felt in months—purpose.
"And Tyler? No pity angles. I'm not some… charity case."
"Got it. All badass, all the time." Tyler paused. "You gonna be in the video?"
"Hell yes." Michael lifted his chin. "I'll narrate. Do a talking-head thing. Maybe show the—" He gestured vaguely at his missing arm. "The thing. For impact."
Tyler's smile faded. "You sure?"
Michael's phone vibrated again, he picks up, and it reads:
[Background Report: 100% Complete!]
"No." Michael met Tyler's gaze. "But do it anyway."