Laughing

Chapter 67 - Laughing

Mike stood on the sidewalk outside the hospital, staring up at the tall glass building. The morning sun reflected sharply off the windows, forcing him to raise a hand over his eyes. Cars passed along the road, people entered and left through the automatic doors, and a hospital employee pushed a wheelchair across the entrance.

Everything looked normal.

Mike remained where he was.

Anna's words kept returning to him. Clark had suffered a severe brain injury after their fight. He had been taken to the hospital immediately and had remained unconscious ever since. The doctors didn't know if he would wake up, much less return to boxing.

A cold heaviness settled in Mike's stomach.

He looked down at his hands. These were the same hands that had struck Clark in the final round of the Amateur Cup. He could still remember his glove connecting with Clark's jaw, the crowd erupting behind him, and the relief that followed when the referee raised his hand.

He had celebrated that victory for weeks.

Now the memory felt different.

Mike knew Clark hadn't fought fairly that night. Something had been wrong with him from the beginning. His movements had been unusually aggressive, and several of the referee's decisions had seemed strange. Mike had suspected that Clark was under the influence of something, but he had never been able to prove it.

None of that changed the fact that Mike had thrown the punch.

He had never wanted Clark to end up in a hospital. He had wanted to win and wanted Claire to understand what her betrayal with Sam had cost her. He had wanted her to feel some of the humiliation and pain he had carried for months.

He had never imagined that his victory could cost someone the rest of his life.

Mike finally walked toward the entrance.

The automatic doors opened, and cool air brushed against his face. Inside, the lobby smelled of disinfectant and coffee. People sat in the waiting area with tired expressions while nurses moved between the corridors. A television above the reception desk played the morning news with its volume turned low.

Mike approached the reception desk.

A woman in a blue uniform looked up from her computer.

“I need information about a patient named Clark,” Mike said. “I also need to speak with his doctor.”

The receptionist turned back to her computer. “What is your relationship with the patient?”

Mike hesitated.

“We're from the same hometown. I heard about his condition and wanted to see him.”

She studied him briefly before checking the records. A moment later, she gave him the floor number and the name of Clark's attending doctor.

Mike thanked her and headed toward the elevators.

The elevator was empty. As it climbed, Mike watched the floor numbers change above the doors, his thoughts returning to the same image.

Clark lying unconscious in a hospital bed and his family waiting beside him.

Mike wondered what he would say if Clark could hear him. An apology felt too small, but he couldn't think of anything else.

The elevator stopped.

Mike stepped out and followed the signs toward the doctors' station. The hallway was quieter than the lobby, with polished floors reflecting the overhead lights. A nurse pushed a cart past him, and somewhere behind a closed door, a monitor gave a steady electronic beep.

An intern in a white coat stood behind the station sorting through papers.

“I'm looking for Clark's attending doctor,” Mike said.

The intern checked the computer. “He's making his rounds right now. You can probably find him with Clark.”

Mike's attention sharpened.

“He's with Clark?”

“Yes. Room 418. Follow the corridor and you'll see it.”

Mike thanked him and continued down the hall.

The farther he went, the quieter it became. He passed several patient rooms before the corridor opened into a more private section. The doors were wider, the lighting softer, and large windows along the outer wall offered a view of the city.

Then Mike noticed a partly open door.

A small plaque beside it carried Clark's name.

He slowed as he approached, his heartbeat suddenly quickening. He looked through the glass panel.

What he saw made him forget everything else. Clark was sitting upright in the hospital bed.

Mike stared. Clark wasn't unconscious and laughing.

Two nurses stood beside the bed, trying to adjust the monitors while Clark kept moving his arm away from them. The doctor stood nearby, struggling to secure a blood-pressure cuff around Clark's arm.

“You need to keep your arm still,” the doctor said.

“I am keeping it still,” Clark replied with a grin. “You're just taking too long.”

One of the nurses covered a smile. The doctor shook his head and tried again.

Clark pulled his arm back. “Your hands are freezing.”

“They are not freezing.”

“They feel like ice.”

“You're complaining about my hands while you're sitting in a hospital bed.”

“That sounds like a perfectly reasonable complaint to me.” The nurses laughed.

Clark looked nothing like the man Mike had imagined on the way there. His face had color, his eyes were bright and alert, and his movements were steady. He followed the conversation without hesitation, gestured naturally as he spoke, and calmly picked up a cup from the bedside table before taking a drink.

There was no sign of a man who had spent months unconscious.

The cold heaviness in Mike's stomach turned into confusion. He watched Clark for another moment, almost expecting the scene to change.

It didn't.

The doctor finally finished the examination and wrote something on Clark's chart before picking up the file and walking toward the door.

Mike stepped back as he came out.

The doctor noticed him immediately.

“Can I help you?”

“I'm here to talk about Clark.”

The doctor's expression became cautious. “Who are you?”

Mike hesitated.

He couldn't tell him about the system messages, the strange reward he had received after defeating Clark, or what Anna had told him at the gym. He couldn't explain why he believed Clark was connected to everything that had happened to Claire.

So he gave the simplest answer.

“I'm from his hometown. I heard about his condition and came to check on him.”

The doctor studied him. “You know Clark personally?”

“Not very well. We've met before.”

The doctor didn't look convinced, but he didn't question him further. Instead, he glanced down the corridor and gestured for Mike to follow.

“We should talk somewhere private.”

Mike nodded.

The doctor closed the door to Clark's room behind them, muffling the sound of Clark's laughter.

As they walked toward the office, Mike glanced back once. Minutes earlier, he had prepared himself to see a man who might never wake up.

Instead, he had found Clark sitting comfortably in bed, joking with nurses and arguing with his doctor over a blood-pressure cuff.

Nothing about it matched Anna's story.

Mike followed the doctor down the hallway, his thoughts racing. Someone had lied to him.

Now he needed to know why.

More importantly, he needed to find out what had really happened to Clark after their fight—and why the truth had been hidden from him.

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