Katie

Over the next couple of weeks we wrote exams. We won the basketball tournament. We sold tickets to the Valentine's dance. We had fire drills and food fights. For students at St. Patrick's High School, life went on. But for one student, life was on hold.

Will closed his eyes on that hill, and he hadn't opened them since. He was in a coma.

I visited him nearly every day after the accident. He looked small, broken. Like a bird fallen out of its nest. The doctors had him hooked up to all kinds of machines and contraptions. His head was bandaged, his legs in slings and casts.

I always stopped in on my way home from Dad's room and just stood there, like an idiot, at the foot of Will's bed. I don't even know why I went. I never spoke to him. Will didn't even know I was there.

"Hey, girl," Maureen said, coming in to check the monitor. She turned a few knobs, checked his eyes, and wrote on the chart. Not that there was ever any news. It had been a few weeks and nothing changed but his bandages.

"You know, Katie," she clicked her pen and shoved it in her pocket. "Will is lucky to have a friend like you."

I tried to smile. If only she knew.

"Comatose patients wake up just like that," she snapped her fingers. "After months or even years—" She paused and looked away. "I mean ... well, just keep coming."

I nodded.

"We're doing everything we can for him," she said. Nurse talk for: it's up to Will now. "And I'm no doctor," she walked around the bed and patted my shoulder on her way out. "But I always say it's what they have to come back for that makes all the difference."

I watched him sleep. What has he got to come back to?

School? Not likely.

His family? Maybe. But I didn't think his dad was doing too well. I saw him in here last week, just as I was about to go in. He was slumped in the chair, head in his hands. "I can't do this, Melanie;' he cried. "I can't. Not again."

It must have been so hard for Professor Reid. He was truly alone. His family lived in England. At least I had Granny. At least Dad was getting better—well, kind of. The professor's grief was still so raw, even now, two years later. I wanted to say something to give him hope, maybe share how Dad found strength after Mom died. Dad said I gave him a reason for living. But if he lost that reason, too,, I thought looking at Will, bandaged and bruised. What then? I hesitated with my hand on the doorknob, ashamed to be witnessing something so private. Knowing the professor would not want to be seen this way, I stepped back into the hall and closed the door.

I stood at the foot of Will's bed. Maybe all he had to come back for was friends. A friend. Me. I was Will's closest friend. If you could call me a friend.

Who needs a friend like me?

"Will," I said softly. I walked to the bedside and put my hand over his. "I'm sorry. I let you down. I said things I never should have and never said something when it really mattered. But I just want you to know I ... I care about you. Go, or come back. The choice is yours, Will." I squeezed his hand. "I just hope somehow you know you aren't alone."

Two days later, Will made his choice.