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Jazz wakes to the incessant buzz of her phone on the nightstand. For a moment, she shuffles within soft, warm sheets, keeping the side of her face pressed against her pillow. The call ends. Her phone’s vibrating stops briefly, but is then replaced by the spitting rhythm of multiple texts. Sent, one after another.
She considers turning over. Something stops her—an internal urging that prods impatiently at her drowsy mind. Throwing her languid grogginess, Jazz sits up. Goosebumps crawl across her flesh as the cold air of her bedroom brushes against it. She reaches for the phone.
There, on a bright, blinding screen, sits a series of texts from Sam. Jazz spares a frown. What is Danny’s friend doing texting her—she pauses, glancing at the time—at two twenty?
Jazz clicks into the messages. The first text contains two words.
Help us.
Jazz scrolls down.
Danny’s hurt.
Hurry.
Below is an address.
Jazz is upright, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweater, sticking her phones and keys into her pockets. She leaves her room. In the hallway, she tries to be quiet, opening the bathroom door and pushing up on the knob to keep the hinges from squealing. Grabbing an emergency first-aid kit, she’s down the stairs and out the door half a minute later.
Jazz hops into the car. She backs out of the driveway, throws the car into drive, and steers down the street, fifteen over the speed limit.
The roads are clear and dark. Sporadic streetlamps line them, but Jazz clicks on her high beams, taking a left at the first intersection. Then, a right. She applies steady pressure on the gas pedal, taking turns in a way that has her grip tightening on the wheel. The car is silent. Same chilled quiet as the night air. The only sound is the engines thrumming as Jazz approaches her destination.
She recognizes the address Sam texted her—it’s on the same street as Casper High School.
It takes less than ten minutes, and Jazz is pulling to a stop, skidding across gravel. She parks and turns off the car. Throwing off her seatbelt, she jumps out of the car, clutching the first-aid kit to her chest.
Jazz stands in front of a house. Her breath billows in the cold night, her fingers growing stiff against the chilled, inanimate plastic of the kit. The house is dark, with no light streaming between the half-closed drapes. But the numbers posted on the mailbox match those written on the address Sam texted.
Jazz stalks towards the front door, kit bumping at her side, against her thigh. She doesn’t bother with knocking, or ringing the bell. Part of her, one that is arguing very loudly from a hesitant corner of her mind, warns her against it, citing the dangers of entering a strange house in the middle of the night. She could be mistaken for a home intruder—well, technically, she is a home intruder.
But another part of her chants Danny. Hurt, waiting.
That part is louder.
Jazz leaves the door half-open behind her—for an easy exit, and to avoid making unnecessary noise closing it. Inside, it’s dark. She almost trips over discarded shoes in the entryway as she ventures deeper. There’s a pair of red, children’s sneakers that remind her of Danny’s favorite childhood pair.
Danny.
Jazz resists the urge to call out for him, for Sam and Tucker. Sure, she might find them faster. But there’s also a chance there’s been a mistake—Sam typed the wrong address, Jazz pulled up to the wrong house. Jazz can’t risk it.
She pulls out her phone.
Here, she texts.
A moment later three dots are on her screen as she waits for Sam to type out a message.
In the back.
Jazz pulls up the flashlight on her phone, letting it shine before her. She avoids furniture and some toys scattered in the hall. The house is decently sized, but it’s a straight shot past the entryway, through the hall—
Jazz pauses at the end, feet rooted to the ground like nails have driven through her feet, into the unassuming hardwood.
The back of the house is a three-seasoned porch, and it’s been destroyed.
A futon is turned over, cushions shredded and intertwined with felled, slashed curtains. There are a number of broken vases lying cracked and crumbled below the sills of shattered windows. A hole is plunged through one wall, icy air leaking through to stir, coiling in the porch. Wooden supports are scattered on the lawn and inside. The structure of the room is a mess, its accommodations are worse.
But Jazz spares next to no thought for the porch.
Because behind the flipped, twisted frame of the futon lies her little brother.
Danny is on his back, head cradled in Tucker’s lap. Sam is at his side, facing Jazz, and looks up when a strangled gasp escapes her.
“Jazz!” Sam says. “C’mon!”
Stiffly, Jazz uproots her feet. She crosses the wrecked room, stepping over strewn flower petals and scattered game pieces, cards, and broken boards. Other nicknacks and belongings crunching beneath her feet. Woodenly, she lowers herself to Danny’s other side, setting the first aid kit on the floor and popping it open deftly.
She ignores a mix of green, red liquid that seeps into the knees of her jeans.
“What happened?” Jazz asks as she rummages through the kit, pulling out gauze and antiseptic and pain relievers and passing them to Sam.
“Ghost,” Sam says shortly.
“New one,” Tucker elaborates. “This animal type thing—Danny got it in the thermos, but it was…it was big Jazz. Big and mean.”
She can see that.
Jazz scans Danny grimly. He’s half-unconscious, surfacing to spare a few nonsensical, half-heard phrases. Both of his eyes are closed, but squeezed tightly. Tension lines his pale face, which shines starkly against his jet-black hair. His clothes are tattered, with slashes on the hems of his jeans, towards the edge of his shirt. Mottles bruising smears across visible swaths of skin, while cuts oozing blood and shining ectoplasm hide, peeking out from beneath his torn clothes.
Jazz feels her chest tighten.
She reaches to tuck an unruly tuft of hair out of his eyes, and is reminded of a younger Danny curled up on the couch beside her, sick with the flu, or a cold, and leaning against her while their parents explored the unknown in the basement.
How things have changed…
Jazz continues to smooth back Danny’s hair as Sam works. Tucker supports him, keeping his head high as blood leaks between Danny’s teeth and lips. Green and red run down his chin. She wipes it away with her sleeve. “You’ll be okay,” she finds herself saying.
“Move him this way, Tuck,” Sam orders, lifting Danny’s shirt to reach a particularly deep cut on his side. She wipes away the fluid oozing from the slice, grimacing.
“Here,” Jazz says, and helps Tucker move Danny to a more accommodating position. She grabs Danny’s hand now, thumb tracing over the nicks and bruised knuckles there. Jazz stares at the injured hand, frowning.
It’s rare that Danny’s human half shows damage like this, after a fight. He’s resilient in his ghost form and strives to stay there during fights. But at some point tonight he clearly ended up fighting as a human—his clothes are torn, something that never happens when he transforms into Phantom, and he’s more damaged than normal.
Jazz glances toward Sam and Tucker. He has a cut on his forehead, a minor one. Droplets of blood are on his t-shirt. Sam’s disheveled, her hair a mess, dirt and debris painting her clothes. The two of them were obviously also involved, regardless of Danny clearly taking the brunt of the fight.
Not for the first time, Jazz hesitates. Holding her brother’s hand in her own as he lays bleeding and unconscious in a strange home, she finds herself contemplating if she’s making the right decision. These three are high school students—they’re kids. Should Jazz really be supporting their ghost-fighting activities? Then, if she doesn’t, who would have brought them the first aid kit tonight?
But Danny starts to groan, and it sounds vaguely coherent. Jazz puts aside her contemplation for later—whatever she decides to do about her little brother’s ghosthunting, for right now, she needs to focus on the fact he looks like he lost a fight with a blender.
“Danny?” Sam says, squeezing his shoulder.
Tucker presses forward, face hovering above Danny’s. “You good, dude?”
Jazz can’t help but lean closer herself, staring as Danny’s expression twists, his eyes squeezing tighter.
“You’re okay,” she tells him. “You’re okay Danny, just open your eyes.”
And he does. His green gaze flicks, first to Tucker, then toward Jazz and Sam. He frowns at them all. “Wha…”
“Ghost fight,” Sam states.
“Oh.”
“Hold still,” Sam says, and goes to start on another wound. Danny glances towards his arm, where Sam starts to poke at a violent, weeping slash. His face loses color.
“Don’t look, Danny,” Jazz warns.
Tucker grimaces. “Ugh, yeah, you don’t wanna see that.”
“Noted,” Danny says, slightly slurred.
Jazz counts out an appropriate dose of pain medication and hands it to him, closing Danny’s good hand around. “Here,” she says. “Take these.”
He swallows the pills.
“How are you feeling?” Jazz asks.
“Not good,” Danny says.
“I’m not surprised—you went through a window,” Tucker adds helpfully. “A couple.”
Sam pipes up next. “And a wall.”
Danny grimaces. He starts to shift, and all three of them reach to push him flat to the ground when it becomes clear he’s trying to get up.
“Hey—”
Sam cuts off Danny’s protest. “No,” she says firmly. “You’re hurt, Danny. Take a breather.”
“I can do that sitting up,” Danny argues. And this time, when he goes to sit up, Tucker reluctantly supports him. Danny’s lost more color, his face bleached white. Both eyes are bloodshot, but Jazz is used to seeing them that way. Exhaustion is another side effect of her brother’s extra-curricular activities.
“You okay?” Tucker asks as Danny breathes deeper. A slight, green tint rises up his neck.
“Fine,” Danny says, half groaning.
“If you’re about to throw up some warning would be nice,” Sam says.
And Jazz can see why she’s concerned—Danny’s leaning forward to cradle his head against his knees. He’s done the same thing all his life when nauseous. “Do you need a bucket?” Jazz asks.
“Fine,” Danny repeats, with an edge. “Need a minute.”
Tucker rubs his shoulder.
They sit like that for a few minutes, Danny taking regulated, deep breaths. Sam dabs at minor cuts not worth bandaging, wincing herself when Danny flinches back from antiseptic wipes. A dog barks from somewhere further down the street, and Jazz is reminded of where they’re camped out.
“Who’s house is this?” she asks.
“A sophomore,” Tucker explains. “He’s out of town though—his whole family. Lucky really, that we wrecked this house out of all of them.”
Danny winces.
Sam looks around. “Crap, I bet a neighbor’s going to call the police soon—if they haven’t already. The giant green ghost beast breaking through a house wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“Valerie could turn up too,” Tucker points out.
Danny nods. “We should get out of here.”
Jazz wants to protest—he’s still far from okay. Still bleeding, still hurt. She wants to wrap him in a blanket and tuck him in and let him sleep off his injuries.
But Jazz can’t do that here.
And besides, Sam and Tucker bring up good points. The police and the Red Huntress could turn up at any time.
Sam and Tucker move easily. Sam stands, reaching to help Danny up, with Tucker right behind him. He pulls Danny’s good arm over his shoulders as Sam wraps an arm around his waist. Danny groans, eyes squeezing shut at the sudden elevation. Tucker’s hand rubs up and down his arm. Sam eyes him, concern swimming in her gaze.
“Danny, are you really okay?” she asks.
“Fine.”
Jazz watches them. How many times have they done this? How many nights has she been at home in bed, sleeping on the anxiety of a normal high school student while Danny and his friends have been out on the streets, protecting the town, its people. Hurt. Struggling. Alone.
Jazz packs away the first aid kit quietly, neatly. She wipes up Danny’s spilled blood with a scrap of curtain, cleaning further with a slosh of alcohol.
“Burglary gone wrong?” Tucker says.
Sam shakes her head. “One that demolished a wall? They’ll know it’s a ghost attack.”
“But hopefully they don’t realize Danny was here,” Jazz says.
"We don't want him blamed for destroying a family home," Sam agrees.
"Bad press."
Tucker shrugs. “The sophomore’s a dick anyway—he was rubbing the vacation in everyone’s faces all week.”
Jazz sighs. Whoever the owners of the house are, they don’t deserve extensive property damage. But that’s the least of their problems. She eyes Danny’s tired, strained face.
“The car’s out front,” she offers.
The trio nods, and Jazz moves to open the door so they can limp through, unbalanced. Danny sucks in a tight, strained inhale when he’s jostled. Jazz feels something in her chest twist.
They stagger through the straight shot of a house. Jazz kicks aside the child-sized sneakers, holding open the front door. She digs her keys out of her pocket and unlocks the car.
Getting Danny inside proves to be…not a problem, not even a struggle. But a hurdle. He stifles a cry of pain when he stoops to crawl into the backseat, and Sam grimaces knowingly.
“Ribs?” she asks.
Danny nods, words stolen.
Tucker exhales between his teeth, sympathetically patting Danny on the back as he shovers into the seat beside him. Sam crosses to join on the other side.
And Jazz slips into the driver’s seat.
“Buckled?” she asks, and receives a chorus of nods. It’s like Jazz is driving them to the movies, or the Nasty Burger—a normal outing.
But she’s not.
Jazz pulls out of the driveway. Her knuckles are white around the wheel, bloodless. She flicks on her high beams—they’re the only ones on the road.
The drive home is longer. Without an emergency spurring her to pile on speed, they end up sitting quietly in the moving car for some time. The tangled shadows of trees pass overhead, houses and drives flicking by through the windows. Jazz glances back in the review mirror from time to time. She watches as Danny goes from staring, red-eyes crinkling with pain, to blinking heavily. He leans into Sam.
The next time Jazz looks back, he’s gone. So is she, resting against the car door, Danny propped against her side. Tucker is awake—he meets Jazz’s gaze in the mirror.
“They’re out?” Jazz whispers.
He nods.
When they pull up at the house, Tucker opens the door. Cool night air slips within the car’s warmed interior and Sam winces and shuffles and then wakes. Danny stays knocked out cold.
“C’mon dude,” Tucker coaxes, shaking his shoulder gently. “Wakey wakey, we’re here.”
But Danny is reluctant to rejoin the land of the living.
Jazz, Tucker, and Sam climb out of the car. Even the sound of Sam and Jazz’s doors slamming doesn’t make him stir.
“He’s out, Tuck,” Sam says. Her voice is sleep-scratched. Her eyes lined with shadows.
Tucker nods. He reaches in, dragging Danny free. Sam helps hoist him onto his back. Danny’s always been underweight, but since the accident, he’s been light. Jazz can shove him off the couch, or tug him around in a fight for the bathroom during coveted morning hours. Tucker doesn’t struggle to piggyback his friend to the door.
Jazz and Sam follow, hovering, in case. But they reach the front door, and then up the stairs, and all the way to Danny’s room without any fuss.
Tucker deposits Danny on his bed.
“You two staying the night?” Jazz asks.
Both shake their heads.
“My parents will wonder why I went for a sleepover in the middle of the night—a school night,” Tucker explains.
“Mine too,” Sam agrees.
Jazz nods. “I can give you a ride home.”
“No that’s okay,” Sam says. “Thanks Jazz, but I’d rather walk.”
Tucker nods in agreement.
“If you’re sure…” Jazz says, hesitant. But Sam and Tucker look unphased, like walking home from the Fenton’s after a ghost hunt, during the dead night hours, is an average occurrence.
“Text me if anything happens,” Sam says. She and Tucker both have their gazes locked on Danny’s sleeping face, even as they begin to back towards the door.
“Promise,” Jazz assures them.
“See you around, Jazz,” Tucker says.
“See you,” Sam adds.
Jazz nods.
Danny’s friends leave, and Jazz is alone in Danny’s room. His blood is soaked and dried into her jeans and the tattered, stained curtain and first-aid kit are sitting on his floor. Jazz should clean up. It’s getting later, or earlier, and their parents will wake soon. They’ll be expected to be up before long as well, to get ready for school—though, part of Jazz is already planning on calling Danny in sick, because he clearly needs a break—Jazz should really hide the evidence and get to bed.
But…
She steps closer to the bed. Danny is lying with an arm wrapped around his midsection, knees bent, legs curled close. His hair is a mess. He reminds her of his younger self, played out and falling into bed, exhausted. Wrapping himself up in his own limbs and slipping away, content, happy.
Except he looks so uncomfortable.
Some scratches are still leaking—he’ll need to change the sheets after tonight. He’s wearing the same clothes he spent the day in. Jeans, his favorite shirt. He shivers, and Jazz is grateful, because that’s something she can do something about.
His lower body is draped over the comforters, but she extricates them and sets them gently over him. She smooths back his hair from his face. He shifts.
“Shh,” she murmurs. He fades away again.
Jazz watches him for another moment, hands curled into fists. There’s nothing more for her to do.
Woodenly, Jazz steps away. She cleans up the first-aid kit, stowing it in the bathroom. She double-wraps the curtain in shopping bags and trashes it—in the outside can. She cleans a few drops of blood from the floor, though the spilled ectoplasm fits right in here. She checks her phone. Two ‘made it home’ texts wait for her from Tucker and Sam.
Jazz stalls in the hall outside of Danny’s room, but ultimately returns to her own. What else could she do for him?
She changes into pajamas, crawls back into bed. Plugs in her phone. She pulls the comforters up to her chin, holding the edge tight in her hands, and closes her eyes.
She has a test in second period tomorrow. Sure, she’s studied all week, but a good night’s rest is essential to academic performance. All she wants to do is nod off.
But it’s hard, to find rest when all she can think about is Danny and his friends tonight…how prepared they were…how normal they acted like this—the injuries, late nights, dangerous fights—was.
It’s not normal.
And it haunts Jazz for a steady, sprawling spell before she was finally able to slip into sleep.
Danny…is it always like this for you?