Chapter 2 - No Extra Lives

House Call

Jun 29, 2025

Here’s Chapter Two of the sneak peek.

The fantasy cracks here. This chapter hits different.

Chapter Two - House Call

Thane leaned against the hallway wall, earbuds limp around his neck, listening to the muffled voices in the living room. His mom’s tone was the first thing he caught—tight and stretched thin, like it might snap at any moment. “We just need to understand what to expect,” she said, the words carefully controlled, like they might crack if handled too roughly.

Dr. Hughes’s voice came steady, measured. “Every case progresses differently, but… the trajectory does tend to be consistent.”

The pause that followed hung in the air, loaded with what wasn't being said.

His mom cleared her throat, breaking the silence with a performative cheer. “Well, we’re, uh, optimistic. That’s gotta help, right?”

Thane rolled his eyes. Optimistic. The word landed like a slap. He pulled his hood tighter around his face and shoved himself off the wall. The ache in his chest was already there, a dull, familiar pressure.

Might as well get this over with.

He shuffled into the living room, his feet dragging just enough to make his reluctance obvious. The air felt oddly thick, like he’d stepped into a place where time stretched differently—too slow, yet somehow slipping past too fast. Maybe it was just the exhaustion. Maybe it was something else.

His mom’s eyes snapped to him immediately, her face brightening with a smile so forced and fragile it hurt to see her like this.

“Thane! Come join us. The doctor’s been going over some things,” she said, patting the seat next to her with a smile, trying so hard to keep it together. Problem is, smiling won't make any of this better.

He stood in the doorway, his hands jammed into his pockets, making it clear that he wanted to by anywhere but here.

"Yeah, I figured. Hard not to hear the topic's me," he muttered.

Dr. Hughes turned to face him, his smile a professional mix of warmth and gravity. He was in his late forties, neatly dressed, with a calm demeanor that suggested he’d had this exact conversation numerous times before.

“Thanks for joining us, Thane,” he said politely.

Thane’s gaze swept the room as he shuffled to the couch next to his mother, dropping into it with exaggerated heaviness. The living room looked unnaturally clean, like his mom had scrubbed and straightened it within an inch of its life. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner—sharp and sterile. On the coffee table sat a stack of medical pamphlets, their edges curled from over-handling. One of them, face-up, displayed the headline Managing Degenerative Conditions: What to Expect. Thane snorted softly at the irony.

The sunlight streaming through the windows felt muted, its usual warmth dulled by the weight of the moment, almost as if the weather itself knew what this meeting was about. His mom sat on the couch, clutching a folder of his medical records so tightly her knuckles were white.

Thane slouched deeper, arms crossed tight across his chest.

“So, what's new Doc,” he muttered, his voice low but cutting.

His mom’s smile faltered, but she quickly masked it with a cheery tone. “We’re just trying to get as much information as we can, honey. You know, so we can… be prepared.”

Dr. Hughes gave a small nod, adjusting the notebook on his lap. “That’s right. It’s important we’re all on the same page moving forward.”

His gaze shifted to Thane, calm but probing.

“How are you feeling about everything so far?”

Thane’s smirk was sharp, almost bitter. “Oh, you know. Living the dream,” he said, leaning back further in his seat. He pointed vaguely at the pamphlets on the coffee table. “‘What to expect?’ Really great read. You should pitch it to a book club.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. His mom’s fingers tightened even further on the folder. Dr. Hughes didn’t react immediately, his composed expression unshaken, professional and expectant.

“I know this isn’t easy,” Dr. Hughes said gently, his tone careful. “But I’m here to help you understand what’s ahead and how we can manage things as best as possible.”

This is it. The big "sorry about your future" speech. Thane let the words hang in the air for a moment before letting out a soft, humorless laugh, earning a glance from his mom.

"Manage things. Sure," Thane snarked.

The tension in the room pressed down like a lead weight. The lemon-cleaner smell felt sharper now, mingling with the stale undercurrent of dread that no amount of scrubbing could erase. Doctors were great at making things sound hopeful while quietly confirming you're screwed.

"Go ahead," Thane continued, breaking the silence. "Give me the highlights. Or is this the part where we all pretend there's still some big breakthrough coming to save the day?"

"Thane!" his mom said. "That's not fair. He's just trying to help."

“No, it’s quite alright, Jane,” Dr. Hughes said, exhaling slowly, clasping his hands together. His calm demeanor didn’t waver, but the pause between his words hinted at a weight he rarely allowed himself to show. "I know how hard you’re working to support him. And Thane," he said, turning to face him directly, "I know you don’t want to be here, but it’s my job to make sure you both have the full picture."

The words settled like a stone in Thane’s gut. He looked away, focusing on the sharp edge of the coffee table. Full picture? He already knew how this ended.

Dr. Hughes adjusted the notebook on his lap and leaned forward, his practiced, professional smile firmly in place. His presence was calm, methodical, the kind of steadiness designed to put patients at ease. Hearing no objections this time, he continued, his calm voice filling the room as Jane’s fleeting glance at Thane betrayed a quiet, desperate worry.

“We’ve been reviewing the latest data,” he began, his tone careful. “And I want to start with some encouraging news. There are experimental therapies we’re exploring—new treatments that show some exciting possibilities for slowing disease progression.”

Thane tilted his head, his smirk sharp as he leaned back in his seat. “New treatments? That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re still throwing darts at the wall and hoping something sticks, isn’t it?”

His mom tensed further, if that was possible, but she stayed quiet, her forced smile faltering slightly.

“It’s not a cure,” Dr. Hughes admitted, keeping his tone even. “But the goal is to give you more time. Better time.”

Thane’s laugh was short and humorless. “More time for what? To forget my name? To need help tying my shoes?”

His mom flinched openly at the words but pressed her lips together, refusing to respond. Dr. Hughes, unfazed, leaned forward slightly, signaling with a small gesture to Jane that he was fine continuing.

“I get it, Thane. It’s frustrating, and it's not a guarantee—”

“No kidding, it’s not a guarantee,” Thane interrupted. “Let me guess. Next step is turning me into a science project again, right? Hook me up to more machines so you can ‘manage’ me?”

His mom’s eyes flicked to Dr. Hughes, her hope barely masked by a growing unease. “Thane,” she began, her voice tinged with sweetness, laced in urgency. “I know it’s not ideal. But if it helps—even a little…”

Thane cut her off with a sharp shake of his head. “It won’t, Mom. You know it, I know it, and I’m pretty sure Dr. Hughes knows it, too. But hey, let’s keep pretending, right? That’s what this is all about.”

Dr. Hughes paused, a flicker of empathy breaking through his professional facade. “I understand this feels overwhelming,” he said carefully, “but we have to focus on what might be possible.”

Thane’s smirk faded, replaced by a colder expression. “So that’s what we’re down to, huh? Blind hope? That’s a great pitch, Doc.”

Dr. Hughes exhaled, his shoulders settling slightly as he set his notebook down on the coffee table. “Thane, I know it’s hard to hold on to optimism in a situation like this, but…”

“Don’t,” Thane interrupted sharply. “Don’t say it. Optimism’s just lying to yourself because you can’t handle the truth. And I don’t do lies.”

His mom’s gaze dropped to her lap, a tear dropping from her eye. It landed on the red folder, blooming like spilled ink. Her grip faltered, and the folder slipped slightly from her lap, as though even it couldn’t hold together under the weight of his words. She turned to her son. "Thane," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please. Don’t do this. Don’t shut us out."

Dr. Hughes’s voice softened, his tone dipping into something more honest as he reached out, grasping Jane's hand. “We’re doing everything we can to manage this,” he said, “but we’re not changing the outcome. I wish I could tell you something different. I really do. But our focus is on giving Thane as much quality time as possible.”

Thane’s frustration simmered beneath the surface as the words hit home. His hand trembled slightly in his lap, the motion catching his eye. He clenched his fist against his knee, trying to will the tremor away, but the effort only deepened his anger.

When he opened his mouth to respond, his voice faltered, the slight slur cutting through his bitterness. He stopped short, clearing his throat sharply to cover the stumble.

Not here. Don’t crack here.

Dr. Hughes leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly. The practiced warmth in his expression was gone, replaced by something heavier—unflinching honesty.

“We need to talk about the progression,” he said, his voice steady, but heavy. “Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease doesn’t slow. The progression is inevitable.”

Dr. Hughes shifted in his chair, releasing his hands into his lap. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, sober, as if the words themselves carried too much weight. “This isn’t about if, Thane. It’s about when.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding.

They’d all known it—of course they had. But hearing it said aloud hit like a hammer, shattering any illusions they’d been holding on to.

His mom’s quiet sob broke the stillness, her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain it.

It cut through him, sharper than he’d expected.

He didn’t turn to look—he couldn’t. He wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out was the bitterness. Thane stiffened, his jaw clenching as he stared at the coffee table. His throat tightened, his chest constricting as the words carved into him.

There it is. The truth he already knew, laid bare.

No sugarcoating.

No pretending.

The room seemed smaller now, its corners closing in on him. He let out a sharp, hollow laugh, the sound breaking the silence like shattered glass.

“So that’s it?” he said, his voice brittle. “That’s your big reveal? Real groundbreaking stuff, Doc. Glad you came all the way here to confirm what we already knew.”

He stood abruptly, his feet scraping loudly against the floor. He needed to get out of this room, out of this moment. Anywhere else would be better—Arbelon would be better. His hands trembled, and he shoved them into his hoodie pockets, clenching them into fists to hide the shaking. Weakness is the one thing I won’t let them see. I can't let them see me break.

“You can’t fix this,” he said coldly. “You can’t fix me. So stop pretending any of this is for me.”

“Thane, please,” his mom said, her voice wavering. “We’re not giving up on you. I can’t. I won’t. You’re still my son, and I’ll keep fighting for you—even if you’ve already given up.”

For a moment, he almost let her have it. Almost told her what she wanted to hear—just to make that look on her face go away. But what was the point? It wouldn’t change anything.

Thane met her gaze, his voice low and cutting. “You need that hope,” he said. “I don’t. I know exactly where this ends, and it doesn’t get better.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back—but it was too late. The look on her face said everything. It felt like he’d stolen something she needed, something fragile she’d fought to hold on to. Her hope was delicate, and he’d just shattered it.

Worse still was the bitter truth he couldn’t ignore—that part of him had wanted to do it. Because hope was cruel. Hope made it hurt more. So instead of apologizing, he pressed on, doubling down.

Dr. Hughes started to respond, but Thane cut him off with a grim smile. “Death,” he said. “It ends in death. Can we stop pretending it’s anything else?”

Thane stalked out, shoulders stiff, pace fast.

His mom called after him, her voice cracking. He knew he was leaving her behind, that his words had cut too deep this time. But the weight in his chest made it impossible to stay. He couldn’t face it—couldn’t face her.

In his room, he closed the door quietly and leaned against it, his breath coming fast and shallow. His eyes fell on the VR headset sitting on his desk, the bluish light of its broken circle logo a beacon in the darkness.

That’s me. Fractured. Everything I was—gone. But at least in there… at least in Arbelon, I can pretend I’m still whole.

He grabbed the headset. He hated how much he needed it. But escape was all he had left. At least in Arbelon, he could forget for a while. Pretend he hadn't already lost everything. His eyes lingered on the broken circle, its edges jagged and incomplete. It reminded him of something, though he couldn’t place it—something distant, like a memory just out of reach.

His fingers trembled as he adjusted the strap, the cool plastic settling over his face like a mask. The outside world faded into shadow, its edges blurring until there was nothing left. The faint hum of the headset filled the silence, drowning out the muffled sounds of his room. From the dim light of his room, the broken circle glowed for a moment longer, then slowly faded away—fractured, incomplete, but still holding on.

Just like him.

Then the last traces of light disappeared, the darkness swallowed him whole.