What?
The question burns in my eyes, and he sees it.
He’s quiet for a long moment, then pulls a chair next to my bed.The fact that he’s sitting down, settling in, makes my stomach twist with dread.
This is serious talk posture.
This is bad news posture.
“Jake’s injuries were severe,” he begins carefully.“The gunshot caused catastrophic internal bleeding.We managed to stabilize him for a while, but one of the bullets destroyed a large portion of his liver.He needed an urgent transplant to survive.”
My heart starts pounding, each beat echoing in my ears.
The question forms before I can stop it—And?What then?
“There wasn’t a viable donor match in time,” he says quietly.“Even if there had been… even if you’d been clean and medically stable, you wouldn’t have been able to help him.”
The words don’t make sense.
I stare at him, trying to piece them together.
What do you mean?
Dr.Fallows exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Nate, when we were running compatibility tests—trying to find possible donors—we ran your blood alongside Jake’s.That’s standard for family members in emergencies.”
The room tilts and my skin prickles.
And?
“You weren’t a match,” he says quietly.“And when they ran the DNA panel, it showed something unexpected—you and Jake don’t share the same paternal markers.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
The ceiling blurs and my hands grip the bed rail to keep from shattering completely.
What are you saying?
The question must be written in the shock on my face, in the way my world is visibly crumbling.
"Jake wasn't your biological brother, Nate.Half-brother, maybe, sharing the same mother, but not the same father."
I didn’t think it was possible for my life to shatter again after everything.
Everything I thought I knew, everything I've built my identity around, crumbles like a house of cards.The denial must be written all over my face, but even as I think it, I know it's not.I know it explains things—why Jake and I looked so different, why I always felt like I was fighting twice as hard to prove I belonged in this family, why Mom sometimes looked at me with those sad, guilty eyes.
"I'm sorry," Dr.Fallows says softly, reading the devastation in my expression."I know this is a lot to process on top of everything else.But I thought you should know that there was quite literally nothing you could have done.Even if you'd been standing right there, healthy and ready to help, you couldn't have saved him.Your blood, your organs, your bone marrow—none of it would have been compatible."
I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm eight years old again, watching Jake sleep in the bed next to mine, promising the darkness that I'd always keep him safe.
One single tear finally comes.
All the grief I've been holding back, all the guilt and rage and helplessness, it all comes through one single tear.Dr.Fallows doesn't try to stop me or comfort me with empty words.He just sits there, a quiet presence in the storm of my breaking apart.
And maybe that's exactly what I need—someone who understands that some pain is too big for comfort, too deep for easy fixes.
The door opens and Mom walks in, and the second our eyes meet, her face crumbles.
