Currents and Cracks

The ground squelched under Jamie's boots, a sound like a wet sponge being wrung out. Meltwater ran in thin, grey rivulets across the asphalt paths, dragging grit and forgotten cigarette butts towards the river. Jamie hated the smell of melting ice — a damp, metallic tang that clung to everything, even to the inside of their parka hood. It felt like the city was exhaling a long, cold breath, and the air was thick with it. No escape, not really, not from the things that felt stuck in the throat.

Every step was heavy, each splash of icy mud a reminder of the slow, grinding pace of... everything. Peter's face flashed behind Jamie's eyelids, pale and smudged with fatigue, a faint tremor running through her left hand just last night. Another new symptom. Another thing to jot down in the spiralling notebook Jamie kept hidden under the mattress, a notebook filled with dates, times, bizarre rashes, and cryptic doctor's notes that felt less like answers and more like poorly translated riddles.

The Unseen Complaint

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since the last 'consult'. Dr. Connors, bless her perpetually tired eyes, had tried. Really tried. But the words had still come out the same, a rehearsed dance of medical uncertainty: 'complex presentation,' 'atypical,' 'monitoring closely.' Closely. Like Peter was a particularly interesting weather pattern, not a person whose joints were aching and whose skin sometimes took on a strange, almost translucent sheen. Jamie had wanted to scream, to yank at the doctor's pristine white coat until she admitted she was just as terrified and clueless as everyone else. But what good would that do?

A group of high schoolers, loud and oblivious, clattered past, their laughter bright and sharp like shattered glass. They were probably talking about exams, or some dance. Jamie envied their frivolous worries, the uncomplicated texture of their days. How utterly *normal* it must be, to simply worry about a test. Jamie’s worries had teeth. They tore at the edges of sleep, gnawed at every meal, turned every casual cough from Peter into a code red. It was exhausting.

Jamie hugged their arms tight, the stiff fabric of the parka rubbing against itself, a sound like sandpaper. The river, broad and grey, churned sluggishly, carrying chunks of ice downstream. A massive freighter, painted a peeling navy blue, was slowly nudging its way towards the distant port, its horn sounding a mournful, drawn-out blast. Even the river felt like it was struggling against some unseen current, fighting to push through to something clearer.

The path narrowed, winding through a cluster of skeletal elms, their branches still bare against the pale sky. The ground here was firmer, less of a swamp. Jamie could smell woodsmoke, distant and faint, probably from one of the outdoor fire pits near the historical buildings. It was a comforting smell, solid and real, a brief anchor in the shifting quicksand of their thoughts. For a second, the constant thrum of anxiety dulled. Just a second.

Then, a flicker. A red leaf, still clinging stubbornly to a low branch. Not a spring leaf, but a leftover, brittle and curled, from last autumn. And Jamie's mind, a cruel, efficient machine, made the leap. That persistent rash on Peter’s stomach, sometimes bright red, sometimes fading to a ghostly pink… like some internal autumn, clinging on, defying all attempts to brush it away. Was it an autoimmune thing? The internet, that terrifying, glorious abyss of information, had thrown out countless possibilities, each more horrifying than the last. Lupus. Lyme. Some rare, unpronounceable syndrome that began with an ‘X’.

Jamie pulled out their phone, the screen cold against their palm. No messages. Not from Will, not from anyone. He was probably still at the hospital with Peter, navigating the labyrinthine corridors, waiting for another blood draw, another specialist who would gaze at Peter with a mixture of polite concern and professional puzzlement. It was a dance Jamie knew well: the quiet, desperate hope in the waiting room, the forced calm during the consultation, the crushing weight of ambiguity afterwards. Each visit was a tiny defeat, a confirmation that they were still stuck in the medical wilderness.

A child, no older than Peter, came wobbling by on a bright blue scooter, a huge, toothy grin plastered on their face. Their mother, pushing a stroller, laughed, a clear, unrestrained sound. Jamie watched them go, a pang of something sharp and unfamiliar twisting inside. Not envy, exactly. More like… a profound sense of dislocation. How could life be so utterly normal for them, so easy and bright, while Peter was fading, pixel by pixel, into a blurry, undiagnosable malaise? It felt deeply unfair, a cosmic joke delivered with a cruel punchline.

The Irony of the Everyday

Jamie stopped by a concession stand, the smell of burnt sugar and stale coffee hanging heavy in the air. Ordered a plain hot chocolate, ignoring the elaborate, frothy concoctions on the menu. The woman behind the counter, her hair in a tight bun, offered a tired smile. Just another Tuesday, another transaction. Another small, meaningless moment in a world that insisted on moving, relentlessly, even when your own felt like it was grinding to a halt.

The hot chocolate was too sweet, leaving a film on Jamie's tongue. They leaned against a cold brick wall, watching the few brave souls venturing out on the riverwalk. A couple holding hands, their silhouettes etched against the grey sky. A lone runner, earphones jammed in, pounding the pavement with determined regularity. Everyone had their routines, their small acts of defiance against the inevitable. But what about when the inevitable arrived, not in a grand, dramatic crash, but in a slow, insidious seep?

Their phone vibrated, a jolt. Will. Finally. Jamie’s fingers fumbled, almost dropping the phone. "Hey. What's up?" Their voice sounded far too casual, a pathetic attempt at normalcy.

"Jamie?" Will's voice was tight, strained. Not good. "They want to keep her overnight. Another battery of tests. Just… keep an eye on things." He didn't sound like he believed it himself. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, and failing. Jamie's stomach clenched, the sweet hot chocolate suddenly tasting like ash. 'Keep an eye on things.' That was code. Code for 'we still have no idea, but we're scared now, too.'

"Overnight? Again?" The question came out sharper than intended. "What 'things,' Dad? What exactly are they looking for this time? The invisible monster?"

A sigh on the other end, thin and reedy. "Jamie, don't. We're doing everything. Dr. Connors… she's got a lead on a new specialist. A rheumatologist. They're going to push for an expedited consultation." Will's voice was trying for hopeful, but it cracked on 'expedited'. Expedited. The word felt like a hollow echo in the vast, indifferent halls of the healthcare system. Expedited meant weeks, probably months. And Peter didn't have months, not for this. Not for whatever unseen complaint was steadily, slowly, dissolving her.

Jamie mumbled a quick goodbye, the hot chocolate forgotten, cold now in their hand. The wind picked up, swirling a small vortex of dust and discarded wrappers around their feet. The river kept flowing, indifferent to the pain it witnessed on its banks. The thought of Peter, alone in that sterile hospital room, hooked up to monitors, tubes, being poked and prodded for clues that remained stubbornly hidden, made Jamie's eyes sting. They weren't just looking for a diagnosis anymore. They were searching for Peter, lost somewhere inside a body that was betraying her, and every new test felt less like a step towards discovery and more like another layer of impenetrable fog settling over their lives.

Jamie walked towards the river's edge, the path slick with algae. The water, a murky grey-brown, pulled at the remaining ice, dragging it under with a soft, hungry gurgle. A shiver ran through Jamie, not just from the cold. The river felt ancient, indifferent. It had seen countless seasons, countless struggles. And it would keep flowing, long after everything else had been swept away. The new specialist, the 'expedited' consultation – these were just drops in that vast, cold current. What if they couldn't find Peter? What if she was already too far gone, swallowed by something the medical world hadn't bothered to name yet? The thought was a cold, sharp blade, twisting in Jamie's gut, hinting at an abyss that felt dangerously close.