Spencer gets there seconds before the volunteer, and so while we walk through the hospital, I tell him. It's Stéphane. It was never Bastien.

I call Bastien. I call him again. The phone just keeps ringing, fucking bastard. He's probably at work, with his phone silenced like a responsible adult. He should be answering. I wish there was an emergency call thing that would patch me through directly into my brother's skull. Next time he gets it cracked open, I'm going to ask the doctor's to install a brain chip so I can track him at all times.

They drop Spencer and I off in a room with a table and a painting of a flower field on the wall. The sky in the painting is grey, with thick white clouds. Caro had a particular shade of blue as one of her wedding colours, and the flowers are a perfect match. In the distance, there is a red barn. It looks like it's done with oils.

I stare at the painting. Spencer sits next to me, a hand at the base of my spine. He hates touch, but I always find him with a hand on me. Maybe he likes touching me. I hope so. Instead though, I get the dreadful feeling that he thinks I need it more than he hates it. Even worse, I worry that he is right, that somehow I will always need more and more than he can give. If he is gunpowder and I am the combustion, the bursting, if he is the fanning of my flames.

Worse maybe. He is the consumable and I am the consumption.

"Are oil paints combustible?" the words croak out of my mouth.

Spencer shakes his head, "not the way you are thinking."

It's so few words, nowhere near enough.

I get a phone call seconds later. Caro is on the other line. The buttons are smooth under my fingers, but some how I manage to answer it.

"Hello," I say into the line.

"Stéphane isn't at work," she tells me, her voice shaking.

"I know."

"You didn't call me? What's going on?"

"I don't know."

"Have you got a hold of Stéphane?"

I shake my head, even though I know she can't see me, "it is Stéphane, Caro. It's not Bastien."

"What? What are the doctors saying? Where's Bastien?"

"I don't know," I tell her. "I just don't know anything yet, other than that Stéphane is the reason I'm here and Bastien is not answering his phone."

Spencer holds a hand out, offering to take the phone. I pass it to him. He leaves the room with it, holding it up to his head as he steps into the hallway. I don't know what he's telling her, and I suppose I don't care.

He doesn't come back in for seconds or hours. I can't tell. All I can stare at is the painting on the wall. The grass is bent over, as are the flowers, as if some strong breeze is blowing through them. The overcast day must be cold. I wonder if it's the same temperature as the hospital, as me. I try to imagine that I feel cold, or warm. My arms are numb. I can't wiggle my toes in my shoes.

When the door finally opens, I expect Spencer but it's a doctor. Spencer steps in behind her.

The news sounds like it comes from underwater, both in sound and quality. If I were reading a newspaper, all of the words would be blurred together. I'd have to use my glasses and really try to read them. It sounds waterlogged, soggy, and I need the doctor to explain it to me twice.

Stéphane was in a car crash.

There was a chest injury. The sudden pull of his seatbelt means that Stéphane likely has broken ribs. There may even be some internal bleeding, broken internal organs. They've run an ultrasound and noticed he has a ruptured spleen. He's breathing though, so no lung punctures. His heart is beating fine as well. Of course, there are cuts and bruises and all sorts of minor wounds as well.

The serious issue is his brain. He has been unconscious now for over an hour. He has at least a moderate brain injury. They are conducted blood tests as we speak, but so far, he is breathing on his own.

"It's a good sign," she tells me, from across the table. She's directly centred in front of the painting. "We won't have to put him on a ventilator right now."

A ventilator. We aren't going to have a machine pump air through my brother's lungs. It's a good sign he is able to take in a breath without aid. That's the bar where we are right now.

The doctor says that they will know more at the six-hour mark. It's possible that he could wake up before then, of course, but the six-hour mark is kind of the cut off for the extent of his injuries. His pupils have a moderate response to light. Moderate. Right now, the doctor is running a CT scan on him.

"We don't know when he's going to wake up yet," she says. "We can't know, but we have some good signs for now."

I nod my head.

"Sorry, I don't... he was in a car accident?" my throat aches as I speak. It's too dry. "Are you... well, he doesn't live in the city. Could it... how do you know it was him?"

The woman's eyes crinkle, "paramedics found his driver's license in his wallet. As soon as we can, we'll have you come in and make a face identification, okay? That way, you can be sure."

I nod again.

"We're going to do everything we can to help Stephan," she says.

I don't correct her. He'd want me to do it, probably. Stéphane isn't hard to get right. It should be easy. She should be able to fix it in just a second. She leaves the room, his doctor. I think she told me her name, but I don't remember it. Why don't I know her name? Why doesn't she know his?

The chair here is stiff. I curl my legs up, which is difficult since my work pants aren't meant for bending. I want to take them off. The collar of my shirt feels too tight, I'm being choked by the necklace Spencer bought for me. When was the last time I took it off? When was the last time I stood fully stark naked?

Spencer brushes my hair behind me as I rest my head on my knees.

There is no clock on the wall, but I keep my phone on the table to check the time. I reach for it too often, every few minutes or so.

"Can I get you anything, Cole?" Spencer cups the side of my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Is there anyone you want me to call?"

My voice croaks, "try Bastien, again. And... and Estelle. She's his friend."

Spencer doesn't leave the room like I expected. Instead, I watch him place calls. My eyes don't leave his while he phones Bastien twice, who still doesn't pick up. I study his face as he's on the phone with Estelle. We aren't in the field often, and I wonder if this is what he's like with victims. Is that how he sees me? Is this how he always has seen me?

At the second hour mark, Estelle is on her way and they tell me I can't identify Stéphane just yet. His spleen can be repaired without being removed, but they are moving him into an operating room to do it. The operation itself will take about two hours.

"There is good news," the doctor says. I still don't know her name. "We aren't seeing any other internal bleeding, not in his brain or liver, and his broken ribs didn't puncture any other organs. Now, we're going to have to give him anaesthetic, but we will try to wake him before the six-hour mark, just to get a sense of where his brain is."

After the doctor leaves, Estelle comes. She wraps me in a tight hug. Her face is stained with tears that she tries to wipe away. I don't move from my position. My legs aren't starting to cramp, but Stéphane is in an operation, and he can't move either.

Bastien finally calls back.

"What's going on? I have like a dozen missed calls."

Spencer offered to answer the phone on my behalf, but Bastien needs to hear my voice. Estelle is crying in the corner. The glass of the phone screen is freezing against my cheek.

"You need to come to DC, now," I say. "There's been an accident. Stéphane is in surgery."

The line is quiet. I breathe in and out, just to hear the sound of myself.

"How bad is it?"

"They don't know if he'll wake up."

"I'm on my way."

We don't say I love you, but at the very least I mean it.

At the three-hour mark, I let Spencer update Caro. I didn't realize I hadn't called her back with updates. She's been on her way for some time, but neither of my siblings will be here until the six-hour mark has passed.

Then the four-hour mark comes and goes. Shortly after, Stéphane is out of surgery. His spleen is repaired.

"I'm going to call Hotch and tell him we aren't coming in tomorrow," Spencer says. "Can I tell him the specifics of what happened?

I shake my head, "Stéphane might be awake, so I won't need to stay away from work."

"Cole, you're not going in tomorrow," Spencer leans over and kisses a tear on my cheek. "You need time off."

I don't argue with him. When he calls Hotch, he doesn't explain the situation. I should be grateful. I can't feel anything. If I reach down into the pit of my stomach, I can't find it. Any anxiety, any fear or sadness or anger or confusion. There is nothing there. The hospital staff could dissect me, like they've just done with my brother, and they'd come up empty.

When they try to wake him at the five-hour mark, he doesn't rise. It could be the anaesthetic, the doctor says. Not only was the car crash a trauma to his body, so was the surgery.

They let me see him then. He doesn't look like my brother. He's black and blue and they've got all sorts of wires poking out of him. I can't see his eyes, the only ones that are unique from the four of us siblings. Undeniably, it is what is supposed to be my brother's body, only the body doesn't look like it belongs to him. It looks vacant.

Estelle sobs when the six-hour mark passes.

~~~~~

And oop. Stéphane has it bad. And of course, there is another bombshell incoming, very excited. Lets go!