The boy is rushed into the emergency room, unidentified. The staff work frantically to assess his condition. Broken ribs, internal bleeding, a concussion - it's clear he's in critical condition. As they start stabilizing him for emergency surgery, one of the nurses notes strange tattoos peeking out from under his ragged clothing. Foreign-looking symbols, almost like a strange language. His features seem exotic too, not quite like anything she's seen before.
A Jane Doe in the next room over starts seizing violently. In the ensuing chaos, a monitor in the boy's room starts beeping ominously. His blood pressure is dropping fast. The staff race against time, rushing him into an operating room.
Hours later, he's still in surgery. The surgeons have stopped the internal bleeding, but he's slipped into a coma. As the night shift takes over, an eerie feeling settles in. Something about this boy seems off. No ID, strange markings, and a nagging sense there's more to the story. But for now, their job is to keep him alive through the night. The questions can come later, if he even survives until morning.

The unidentified young patient is finally packed up from the ER and transported over to the intensive care unit at nearly 5 am. His condition is finally stabilized, mostly, but at this point 'stable' is not really the same as 'good.' The internal bleeding is finally controlled, but he has a number of broken bones, putting him at high risk of blood clots and emboli. The CT scan didn't show any gross damage to his skull or bleeding in his brain, but it seems like the injury is worse than just a concussion, and there are already some signs of rising intracranial pressure.

He arrives still deeply unconscious, on a ventilator and surrounded by IV poles holding the infusion pumps of drugs maintaining his blood pressure, with multiple nurses rushing his gurney down the hall. He looks very small as they transfer him to the ICU bed and switch him over to the main monitors. 

Nellie, who's only been a nurse in Reno for a few months but has many years of experience in multiple bigger cities, will be taking him for the rest of the night shift. She hurries over to get him settled in, and to take a report from the OR staff before they disappear back to their other work. 

180 words
The monitors beep steadily as Nellie double-checks the IV lines and ventilator settings. Everything seems stable for now, but she'll be watching him closely. His exotic features and strange tattoos still nag at her, clues to the mystery of who he is and how he ended up here.
On her first round of vitals, his oxygen level seems lower than she'd like. She makes a minute adjustment to the ventilator, hoping it's enough. A low fever has started, not unexpected after major surgery, but worrying in his fragile state. She hangs a bag of broad-spectrum antibiotics and adds them to the tangle of IV tubing.
An hour later, his blood pressure starts dropping again. She calls the on-call doctor, who orders more fluids and a medication increase. The new doses seem to help, but his oxygen level still isn't improving, even turned up as high as they dare go. Chest x-rays show his broken ribs haven't caused any new internal bleeding, but lung collapse is still a risk. They may have to insert chest tubes if he gets worse.
Nellie rubs her eyes, mentally bracing herself for a long night of close monitoring and frequent interventions to keep this mysterious boy alive. She smooths back his dark hair, speaking in a soft, comforting tone even though he likely can't hear. "You're in good hands now. Just keep fighting." Dawn seems an eternity away, but for tonight at least, she'll be right here keeping vigil over her strange, silent charge.

As dawn approaches, the young boy is still showing few sign of responsiveness, neither opening his eyes nor responding to painful stimuli, but at one point he suddenly tenses in the bed, all of his muscles briefly going rigid. His heart rate briefly slows to 20 or 30 bpm for a few seconds, and his blood pressure randomly spikes and then plummets. 

The sudden episode sends Nellie rushing to adjust the monitors to silence their alarms and raise the bedrail in case of a possible seizure. An intensivist doctor is called, hurries over as nurses are sent for stat labs and an EEG is ordered.
As the intensivist examines him, his heart rate slows again and pupils briefly dilate before constricting. His stats inch dangerously low once more. The intensivist suspects the boy may be experiencing neuro-storming, erratic brain activity that could indicate brain injury or swelling.
Just as quickly as the episode came on, vitals stabilize again. An EEG shows bursts of abnormal brainwaves but nothing definitive. Labs reveal electrolyte imbalance, and meds are adjusted. Still no response to stimuli. His fever has spiked to 103, antibiotics increased. With worry, the staff speculate on possible diagnoses: neuro inflammation, encephalitis. For now vigilance is all they have.
Nellie stays close, monitoring breath sounds and heart rate. She notes the sheen of sweat on his brow, dabs it away with a cool cloth. His dark hair is damp now too, slick against his skull. Despite the bustle of staff for tests and meds, a hush has fallen over his corner of intensive care. All they can offer this stranger with the strange tattoos is their skill and care through each frightening moment, each flicker of hope or dread, as another hour inches by and morning light spills muted through half-drawn blinds.

Shift change arrives, and Marian troops into the unit, coffee in her hand and clipboard at the ready. 

...Ooh, she does like interesting mysterious patients. On the other hand, she hates neuro shit, and this is definitely that. And also she hates bad things happening to kids, and this kid...is statistically unlikely to be okay, if she's honest with herself about it, even if he survives he's probably not going to be neurologically intact and that sucks so much.

She is, however, going to be a grownup about it, and take a deep breath and forge in to get her bedside shift report from Nellie. 

They still have a continuous EEG going. Marian is not actually trained in reading EEGs, but it's obvious even to her amateur sense that there are some abnormalities there. The patient is, for the moment, relaxed and still. He's breathing rapidly, though, above the ventilator set rate. His pupils are unequal sizes, and react sluggishly to her penlight. 

Marian looks over at the resident hovering nearby. "Do we have a treatment plan for the morning? Uh, should we be getting a followup head CT, it seems like he's worse than when he came in."

(Though wow she does not want to take this sick fragile kid to CT. What if he has a seizure in the CT scanner. What if he codes in the CT scanner and she's trapped alone in Radiology to deal with it. Marian hates field trips to Radiology and if she has to go she's going to take so many emergency drugs shoved in her pockets. She learned her lesson after the last CT field trip incident.) 

200 words
The intensivist confirms they'll get new head scans and try corticosteroids for possible inflammation. In the meantime, close monitoring and support continue. As the boy is wheeled off for his CT, Marian triple-checks his lines and vent settings, pocketing emergency meds just in case.
The scans show increased swelling and fluid, worrying new developments. His fever remains stubbornly high despite antibiotics. The steroids are started immediately after he's settled back in, a last-ditch effort as prognosis grows grimmer by the hour.
By afternoon, Marian's usual chatter has turned to hushed explanations to family as his condition declines further. His strange tattoos remain a mystery, identity still unknown. Each new crisis finds her adjusting this medication or that setting to eke out a few more breaths, a few more heartbeats. She knows these measures are temporary fixes at best. But still she smooths back his hair, speaking soft encouragements, willing him to keep fighting.
Twice more he experiences episodes of neuro-storming, each resolving a bit slower than the last. His pupils remain dilated and unresponsive now. Reflexes weaken. Stats inch lower with each round.
The intensivist confirms what they all suspect: time is running out. Either the steroids kick in soon or all measures may only delay the inevitable. Nurses switch out for night shift once more, exhaustion and futility etched into the day staff's expressions.
As Nellie resumes her vigil, resolve wars with weariness. She holds fast to the hope of some turnaround, however unlikely, some spark to revive the silent struggle in the small body before her. The night stretches long, measured in beeps and breaths, minutes as hours until the dawn may bring change for better or worse.

Around midnight, something seems to finally start taking effect, whether the steroids or various other medications or just his natural resilience, and the boy's fever subsides.

By 2 am, his temperature is finally normal. He's still unresponsive, but there's no sign of more seizure-like activity, and the next EEG check shows the slow waves of deep unconsciousness, but otherwise no abnormal activity. His pulse and blood pressure are steady; he's still dependent on the drugs and vasopressors to maintain his circulation effectively, but his body is at least managing on a steady lower dose, rather than needing constant adjustments to find any kind of balance. 

(This doesn't mean his prognosis is good, at this point. They've already seen a number of signs of damage, that won't necessarily be able to heal. But it's starting to look more like he will, at the very least, definitely survive until morning.) 

By morning light, vitals remain stable but the boy still lies unresponsive. Nurses on the day shift begin rounds, reviewing charts and assessments, cautious hope growing. His mysterious markings and unknown identity remain a puzzle yet to be solved, but survival now seems likely if frail.
The intensivist examines pupils, reflexes— still sluggish but present. Stats continue improving, pressors decreasing. "The steroids seem to be working. We'll continue close monitoring, but this is the most promising he's looked." A collective sigh of relief passes through the staff.
An occupational therapist comes to assess muscle response and stimulate brain activity. Even comatose, reactions are encouraging. Steroid doses are cut in half for the day to minimize side effects as he continues improving. Fever stays away.
By afternoon, nurses note occasional twitches of fingers or eyelids, involuntary but a good sign. Shift change brings new stories of small improvements, responses to stimuli getting stronger though he remains unaware. Infection risk still worries, but cultures stay clear.
Darkness falls with a sense of reprieve after the urgency of days before. The boy's corner of intensive care remains dim and hushed, but tension has lifted. Nurses make their usual rounds, speaking routines of encouragement and comfort though still uncertain if he comprehends. An odd feeling comes that some veil is parting, a gradual awakening in the still, small figure they've fought to save. What lies behind remains hidden, but dawn may bring new awareness at last— for patient and caregivers alike.

Nellie is back, again, and incredibly relieved to learn that the slow improvement she saw over her last shift has continued. She assesses her patient carefully and thoroughly, noting in detail every change she can observe from when she left 12 hours ago. 

The kid isn't currently on any sedation, and hasn't been since the seizure-like neuro storms ceased; it's more important at this point to immediately observe any change in his neurological status. Nellie still gives him a fentanyl bolus before turning him onto his other side; he may be comatose, but it's a lighter coma than before, he still has broken ribs, and it's just mean not to give him anything at all for pain. 

Once she has him comfortable nestled between pillows, she listens to his lungs and prods his stomach and shines a penlight in his eyes, and then spends several minutes trying to gauge whether there's any kind of even slightly purposeful response to painful stimuli, when she pinches his nailbed or rubs his sternum with her knuckles. 

The night shift nurses trade updates and files as Nellie resumes her vigil. His fever stays down, vitals slowly climb upward. She notes occasional hitches in his breathing or tremors in a limb ,but his responses seem to grow more purposeful by the hour. Yet still he slumbers on.
Mariam stops by on her break, hopeful but hesitant. "Any change?" Nellie smiles, more at ease than she's felt in days. "He's fighting. We have to believe that." Mariam's face softens with relief. For now, it's enough.
The intensivist makes evening rounds, encouraged by the boy's turnaround but watching for complications. "Keep steroids at half dose, continue scans and cultures to be safe. I want him thoroughly reassessed in 24 hours before any major changes." The staff nod, energized by the prospect of stepping down from crisis mode at last, but sobered still by the long road ahead.

For a long time, there is only darkness. 

Ma'ar drifts in it, and - at some point he has, not exactly the thought - there are no thoughts, yet - but something like a sensory experience, that would be an observation if he were capable of paying attention to things - that there is a surface to the darkness, albeit very far away. 

Time passes, though mostly unnoticed by Ma'ar, until at some point he half-reflexively notices that it feels like being asleep. Except not, when you're asleep you can wake up, and he's trying but he can't. (None of this is in words, or even exactly in fully-formed thoughts, only the early inklings of confusion and fear.) 

The next thing he becomes aware of is that his head hurts an astounding amount. A lot of other things hurt too, but he's not really aware of the locations of them, just a vague tangle of pain wrapped around the agonizing headache. He can have thoughts, very very slowly and effortfully, but he doesn't want to because ow. 

The next time Nellie passes through for her neuro assessment, at around 4 am, she notices the boy scrunching his face in an expression of discomfort when she shines the penlight in his eyes, and weakly trying to move his arm in a way that, if he had the strength or coordination for it and also wasn't restrained, might result in trying to push her away. 

(The surface of the darkness is suddenly less far away, and it's VERY BRIGHT and ow ow ow, Ma'ar does not like it.) 

Nellie gasps as the boy flinches from her penlight, eyes squinting open for just a moment. Her heart leaps—at last, a breakthrough! She calls his name, gently touches his arm, watching for any sign of awareness. His eyes open again, gaze drifting, unfocused. But when she squeezes his hand, his fingers twitch in response.
The intensivist is paged at once. By the time he arrives, the boy's breathing has quickened, eyes blinking slowly as they adjust to the light. His responses are still weak but growing more coordinated. The intensivistshines his own light, asks simple questions. The eyes track his voice, head turning slightly.
"Responsive at last. This is excellent progress, but we must go slowly." The intensivist turns the light off, lets the boy's eyes rest. "His body has been through severe trauma. Even as his mind awakens, it will take time to recover. We'll start by easing his vent setting, see if he can breathe on his own. Call me at once with any change."
Nellie nods, thrilled by this first sign of awakening yet sobered by the reminder of all he's endured. She dims the lights, continues her usual murmurs of comfort. His eyes drift open again, confused, as though struggling to understand where he is or what's happened. She squeezes his hand once more. "You're safe now. Just rest. We'll be here when you wake." Exhaustion claims him again, but the respite feels hard-won at last. Dawn breaks with an inkling of hope for the wounded soul beginning to emerge from the long dark.

Ma'ar is confused about so many things right now! It doesn't help that his head still feels stuffy, and somehow raw, as though the inside of it was scrubbed with sand and now just going through the motion of having thoughts is painful and difficult. 

He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't recognize anything around him - mostly can't make his eyes focus on it at all, and he's seeing everything double, but even what he can make out, like the weird bright ceiling rectangles, is unfamiliar. The people are unfamiliar, and foreign-looking. He can't understand the language they're speaking. Maybe it's Tantaran? He tried to say 'I don't speak Tantaran' at one point but for some reason talking doesn't work and makes him cough. He thinks they were asking him questions and he tried to guess what the questions were but he doesn't think he did very well at it.

He tried to actually just cheat and read their minds, at one point, but Thoughtsensing doesn't work, which is incredibly terrifying actually - he can't pick up anything except a vague blur of too-bright nearby minds, that makes him dizzy to Look at at all, and he gave up quickly.

He's at least not very confused about why he can't get out of bed. He's been injured before, and this is like that except worse, and so the obvious guess is that he was injured again but much worse. Which is ALSO SCARY but...the people here don't seem to be trying to hurt him any further, even if he can't understand any of what they are trying to do.

He's very tired. He closes his eyes and tries to float away from the pounding headache, to sink back into haze where it hurts less, until the bright-haired woman bothers him again.  

The boy's first real signs of awakening bring new questions along with relief. His strange markings and unknown origins remain a mystery the staff have yet to unravel. As his eyes drift open again, a nurse notes their shape and color, exotic features that seem to confirm he's from distant lands. Yet his obvious confusion at their speech suggests no familiarity with local tongues.
His attempts at communication are in vain, responses in a language none recognize. Their questions receive only blinks and turns of his head, grasping for meaning. With caring hands they soothe him as frustration mounts, their own helplessness aching at inability to understand his needs or provide real answers to his unspoken pleas.
The intensivist examines his responses once more, confirms he's ready to be eased from vent support. Oxygen and fluids continue, stats stabilized for now, but the risk of setbacks still looms if vigilance wavers. The boy's awakening seems more burden than gift, his battered body and mind unable to rest as they puzzle through this strange new world. His silent struggle is etched into the lines of pain and fear that crease his face, a call to patience that nurses answer with each gentle touch and murmur of solace until night and exhaustion claim him once again.
Though dawn awakens his wounds anew, for a few brief hours his fitful doze brings escape. The staff, too, find brief reprieve at shift's end, their own weariness gathering as the long fight goes on. Questions remain, but for now survival is enough, his nameless life held close through the deep of night. The dawn's pale light may bring a chance, at last, to soothe his wordless cries

Marian is back for the day shift, and her entire face lights up at the ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE NEWS that their patient is AWAKE and RESPONSIVE and ready to come off the ventilator as soon as day shift takes over. She's so excited and happy! 

...She tones down some of her excited delight before going in, because the kid is probably in a lot of pain, and apparently he doesn't seem to speak the language and so he's probably incredibly confused about what's happening to him. 

She lays a hand gently on his arm to wake him. "Hey. It's Marian. I was your nurse before. The resident is going to have a look at you, and then we're probably going to be able to take the breathing tube out for you, because you're doing so much better." 

She gestures that the resident hovering at the door can come in and do his assessment, though he should be quiet and gentle because this poor kid looks so scared. 

The intensivist comes to assess the boy's readiness to come off the ventilator. His eyes seem more focused today, tracking the doctor's movements. Vitals have stabilized, oxygen levels are promising. "I think he's ready. Let's start by switching him to a high-flow nasal cannula, see how he tolerates that. Go slowly, keep a close eye on his sats."
The staff nod, preparing to make the switch. His eyes widen as the vent tube is removed, new cannula put in place. He coughs weakly at the sensation, breath hitching in panic until oxygen flows freely again. His chest rises and falls on his own at last, each breath an exhausting gift. The intensivist listens to lung sounds, asks simple yes or no questions to gauge responsiveness. The boy's nods are frail but clear, eyes pleading for understanding even as they threaten to drift closed once more.
"Excellent progress. Stay on high alert, continue frequent neuro checks and call me at once with any change." The staff breathe a shared sigh, relieved to mark one more step toward stability. His eyes close as the bustle around the bed fades, each new breath a victory and burden, freedom and trial, carrying a life reclaimed through the deep of a healing sleep.

Marian stays at his side for the first few minutes, watching him very closely, but it's a lot more obvious now that Ma'ar, to the extent he can stay awake for more than thirty seconds at a time, is incredibly jumpy and tense. And does not like being touched. He doesn't resist, exactly, but he closes his eyes and holds himself rigidly still until she stops it. He did it with the resident listening to his lungs as well. 

Marian is kind of worried about what on earth happened to this boy, who cannot possibly be older than fourteen, to cause him to react that way. She's not going to push it, though, she can watch his vital signs from the other side of the curtain and give him some privacy until he feels more settled. 

Ma'ar dozes for a while, and wakes with his head throbbing slightly less. His mage-energy reserves feel less depleted - he's been doing nothing but resting, apparently, and they must have been somehow feeding him here though he doesn't remember eating - and maybe he can cast a shield. He hates not being shielded. 

- unfortunately, the thing that happens instead is that his Gift is unexpectedly clumsy and doesn't do what he expects, and he drops the half-formed magic on his own face and then clutches his head and screams in suddenly renewed agony. 

(Also, the floor shakes.) 

The floor trembles violently for a moment, though the source of the disturbance remains unseen. Nurses cry out, grabbing onto beds or doorways until the tremors pass. But the renewed agony in the boy’s shriek tells its own tale, his body arching in distress.
Marian rushes to his side again, confusion and terror warring in his eyes as the pain ebbs. His breath comes in panicked gasps, hands clutching at the sides of the bed as though anchoring himself against some threat only he perceives. She calls his name, grasps his shoulders firmly until his gaze focuses on her face. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”
His chest heaves with effort, each breath a sob. She checks monitors for signs of new damage or disturbance but finds only the aftermath of fear. The intensivist hurries in, alerts the staff to watch for further tremors. But tests reveal no clear cause for the episode, his fragile patient’s state once more a mystery and trial.
Marian stays near as the bustle fades, speaking soft reassurances to soothe his ragged nerves. His eyes plead for answers she cannot give. But her steady hands remain, a lifeline through the chaos, each murmured comfort pulling him back from the brink of a darkness all his own. Exhaustion claims him as the panic ebbs, escape in fevered dreams from a waking world too strange and painful to endure. Her own heart aches in sympathy at struggles she scarce imagines—the long road ahead to heal what lies beneath strange surface scars. Dawn breaks to find survivor and savior alike caught in the shadow of the unknown, a bond forged without words to face the broken dawn.

Ma'ar withdraws into himself, after that, for the rest of the day and the rest of the next night. 

He's so miserable. His mage-gift doesn't work and he doesn't know if it's temporary, because he hurt his head, or if it's going to be like that forever. The woman whose name he thinks is 'Marian' keeps trying to be reassuring, but he can't understand what she's saying, which makes it sort of pointless to try to listen to what she's saying, and he doesn't think it's about his Gifts. 

He doesn't want to risk trying Mindspeech yet, and so he can't do anything, just huddle up with his strange white flat blankets, in his strange bed with railings on, in the strange room full of glass boxes. He picks at the strange solidified juice food that Marian brings him (Jell-O is a very odd thing to experience if one is from a low-tech nomadic herding people) and mostly tries to sleep. 

The strange boy's withdrawal worries the staff, his obvious misery and confusion tugging at their hearts. They continue frequent checks and care, keeping close watch for further tremors or distress. But his sleep seems only escape, each brief waking a silent plea for answers out of reach.
Mariam returns for her shift, surprised at the changes since last she saw him. His eyes track her movements now beneath half-open lids, but spark none of the curiosity of before. She speaks soft greetings he does not seem to comprehend, smoothing back dark hair from his brow. His skin burns fever-warm again, though cultures show no new infection.
The intensivist confirms the fever's source remains unfound. "Keep a close eye, continue bloodwork and scans." His frown echoes their own fears, this new foe as strange as the boy himself. They drape cool cloths over him to soothe the heat, offer fragile lifelines in place of true understanding.
Darkness falls to find his fever ebbing again, as sudden as its source remains obscure. But trembling limbs and hitched breaths betray its cost, each hard-won victory eroding what little reserves remain. Exhaustion carves deeper lines into his young face with each fitful turn, a map of journeys beyond their healing hands. The long night stretches on, holding its secret close until the light, keeping vigil over a life still balanced on some knife's edge, the known and nameless thing.

He was making such good progress yesterday! But this morning he's, well...

Marian honestly isn't sure if the issue is just that he's lonely and homesick and confused and can't understand any of their reassurances (they tried a telephone interpreter but the interpreter didn't recognize whatever language the kid speaks, though he was only willing to say a few words of it with a lot of prompting) – or if something deeper, something neurological, is still wrong with him. ...Or, you know, maybe he's just exhausted from being in pain all the time from all his injuries. She thinks it's more than just that, though. 

But you know what! Either way it's going to help him to GET OUT OF BED – with a lot of help, obviously, his broken ankle was fixed with pins in the OR but he shouldn't really be putting weight on it yet – and at least relocate to the reclining armchair. She can wheel him over to the window in it so he can get a good sixth-floor view of the city of Reno. Not exactly a famous view but it's a nice one, you can see the river. 

Marian wheels the chair over to the window, watching his reaction carefully. At first, he simply stares outside, brow furrowed, as though struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar cityscape below. But after a few minutes, his gaze seems to focus and widen, fixed on something in the distance. His shoulders relax a fraction, hands loosening their white-knuckled grip on the chair arms.
She moves around into his line of sight, pointing outside with an encouraging smile and raised eyebrows, hoping to draw some spark of interest or response. For a moment his eyes meet hers, alight with wonder - then shutter closed again, chin dropping to his chest. Her heart sinks at the reminder that whatever glimpses she catches of the person behind those eyes remain locked away, as distant as the farthest horizon.
A nurse brings lunch, and his obvious confusion at the array of options brings a pang of sympathy. She demonstrates each item in turn, hoping familiarity may spark his appetite, however meager. He picks hesitantly at a few bites, movements slow and painstaking, each swallow an exhausting effort. But when she moves to wheel him back to the bed, he shakes his head fiercely, hands clutching the chair as though it alone keeps him moored against some
hidden
storm.