Chapter 4: Ward 7

The call came at 7:43 AM on Friday morning, jarring Ethan from the first real sleep he'd managed in days. Maya had finally convinced him to try a mild sedative she'd picked up from her doctor, arguing that exhaustion was making him paranoid and clouding his judgment. For once, she'd been wrong about the paranoia.

"Mr. Hayes?" The voice was professionally kind, with the practiced patience of someone accustomed to delivering difficult news. "This is Nancy Kellerman, discharge coordinator at Whitmore Treatment Center in Ann Arbor. I'm calling because you left against medical advice yesterday evening, and we're required to do a follow-up."

Ethan sat bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Your discharge, sir. You signed yourself out around 6 PM yesterday despite Dr. Morrison's recommendation that you complete the full evaluation period. We understand you were upset about the memory therapy sessions, but—"

"Stop." Ethan's voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. I have never been to your facility. I have never been a patient there. I don't know what kind of mistake this is, but—"

"Mr. Hayes, I have your file right here. Ethan Michael Hayes, date of birth March 15th, 1996, Social Security number ending in 4721. You were admitted for a voluntary 72-hour evaluation on Tuesday for treatment of dissociative amnesia and post-traumatic stress related to a childhood incident. Your emergency contact is listed as Maya Chen."

The phone nearly slipped from Ethan's suddenly nerveless fingers. His date of birth. His Social Security number. Maya's name. Information that should have been impossible for a stranger to obtain, yet this woman recited it as casually as reading from a grocery list.

"That's... how do you have that information?"

"Sir, you provided it during your intake interview. Along with a detailed history of memory gaps related to a traumatic event in 2009. You were quite distressed about recent triggers that had been causing flashbacks and dissociative episodes."

Maya appeared in the bedroom doorway, drawn by his raised voice. One look at his expression and she was immediately alert, moving to sit beside him on the bed.

"Put it on speaker," she whispered.

Ethan complied, his hands shaking as he adjusted the phone settings.

"Ms. Kellerman," Maya said, her voice crisp with professional authority, "this is Maya Chen. I need to clarify something. Ethan has been in Chicago all week. He hasn't left the city, let alone traveled to Michigan."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Ms. Chen, I understand this might be confusing, especially given his condition. Dissociative disorders can create gaps in memory and awareness. It's entirely possible that Mr. Hayes doesn't remember his time here, which is actually quite common with his type of trauma history."

"What trauma history?" Ethan demanded. "I don't have a trauma history. I've never been treated for anything except a broken arm when I was eight."

"Sir, according to your file, you were involved in a significant incident at age thirteen. A fire at a youth residential facility that resulted in serious injuries to you and another patient. The psychological trauma from that event, combined with survivor's guilt, led to suppression of the entire period of your life surrounding the incident."

The room seemed to tilt around Ethan. He could hear Maya talking, could see her lips moving, but her words sounded distant and muffled. A fire. Injuries. Another patient. The fragments aligned with what his stalker had been telling him, but hearing it from an official medical source made it feel horrifyingly real.

"I need to see the file," Maya was saying. "I need to see proof that he was actually there."

"I'm sorry, but patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing medical records without proper authorization. However, if Mr. Hayes would like to call back and verify his identity, I can discuss his case with him directly."

"I'm right here," Ethan said, his voice hollow. "I'm Ethan Hayes. I'm telling you I wasn't at your facility."

"Sir, I understand your confusion. This is actually quite typical for patients with dissociative amnesia. The mind protects itself by blocking out traumatic experiences, sometimes including entire periods of time. What you're experiencing now—this sense that the memories aren't real—is a normal part of the healing process."

"What exactly happened during my supposed stay at your facility?"

Another pause. "You underwent preliminary evaluation and participated in several memory recovery sessions with Dr. Morrison. During one of the sessions, you became quite agitated when discussing the fire and your relationship with the other victim. You insisted that someone named Leo was trying to contact you, that he blamed you for what happened. Dr. Morrison recommended extending your stay, but you became increasingly paranoid and ultimately signed yourself out."

Leo. The name hit Ethan like a physical blow. He'd never heard it before—he was certain of that—but something about it resonated in a way that made his chest tight with panic.

"Who is Leo?" Maya asked, watching Ethan's reaction with growing concern.

"According to Mr. Hayes' statements, Leo was his roommate at the Sunrise Youth Center in 2009. They were both injured in the fire, but Leo's injuries were more severe. Mr. Hayes expressed significant guilt about the incident, believing he was somehow responsible for what happened to his friend."

Ethan doubled over, his breathing coming in short gasps. The room was spinning, and he could smell something that wasn't quite smoke but carried the same acrid bite. His hands felt hot, as if he'd been touching something he shouldn't have.

"Ethan!" Maya's voice cut through the haze. "Look at me. Breathe."

"I can't—there was smoke—I couldn't get to him—" The words came out without his permission, torn from some deep place he didn't recognize.

"Mr. Hayes?" The voice on the phone sounded concerned. "Are you experiencing a flashback? This is exactly why Dr. Morrison recommended continued treatment."

"We're hanging up now," Maya said firmly, but Nancy Kellerman's voice continued.

"There's one more thing you should know. The patient in room 236—the young man who was asking about you—he discharged himself this morning as well. Said he was going to Chicago to find you. Given his history of obsessive behavior and his unresolved anger about the incident, Dr. Morrison was quite concerned about releasing him. We've contacted local authorities, but—"

Maya ended the call abruptly, but the damage was already done. Room 236. Someone else had been at the facility, someone asking about Ethan, someone with "unresolved anger" who was now supposedly headed to Chicago.

"This isn't real," Ethan whispered, but his certainty was cracking like ice under pressure. "This can't be real."

Maya was already on her laptop, pulling up airline websites, hotel booking sites, anything that might show evidence of travel to Michigan. "Even if someone is impersonating you, there should be digital footprints. Credit card charges, flight records, something."

But as she searched, Ethan's phone buzzed with a new Instagram message from @TheWatcherReturns. This time it was a photo of a hospital discharge form, partially visible but clearly showing his name and yesterday's date.

They let me go too. I told them I was ready to make peace with what happened. They believed me.

Another message arrived immediately: I'm coming home, Ethan. Room 237 was where it started, but Chicago is where it ends.

Maya looked up from her laptop, her expression grim. "I can't find any record of you traveling to Michigan. No credit card charges, no flight bookings, nothing. But..." She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "I did find something else. The Sunrise Youth Center. It was a residential facility for at-risk youth in Ann Arbor. It burned down in 2009."

She turned the laptop screen toward him. The news article was brief but devastating: "Fire at Youth Center Leaves Two Injured, Building Destroyed." The accompanying photo showed a charred skeleton of a building, smoke still rising from the ruins.

"Two boys, ages thirteen, were hospitalized with smoke inhalation and burns," Maya read aloud. "Names withheld due to their minor status. One was transferred to intensive care at University of Michigan Hospital, the other was treated and released to family custody."

Ethan stared at the photo, and for a moment—just a moment—he could swear he smelled smoke. Could hear the sound of breaking glass, someone screaming his name from far away.

"The date," he whispered. "What's the date on the article?"

"October 15th, 2009."

Ethan's world tilted. October 15th, 2009. He should remember that date. Should remember where he was, what happened, why two thirteen-year-old boys had been in a burning building. But there was nothing. Just a void where that piece of his life should have been.

His phone rang again. Same Michigan area code, but a different number this time.

"Don't answer it," Maya said, but Ethan was already reaching for the phone.

"Hello?"

"You remember now, don't you?" The voice was different from the previous caller—younger, rougher, with an edge of barely controlled emotion. "You remember the fire."

"No," Ethan said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Liar. I can hear it in your voice. The doctors at Whitmore, they helped you remember, didn't they? At least some of it."

"I was never at Whitmore. I don't know who you are."

"I'm Leo, Ethan. I'm your best friend. I'm the boy you left to burn."

The line went dead, but the words echoed in Ethan's head like a curse. Leo. The name that had made his chest tighten with recognition. The friend he couldn't remember having, who claimed to remember everything Ethan had forgotten.

Maya was talking, her voice urgent and concerned, but Ethan couldn't focus on her words. All he could think about was the smell of smoke that lingered at the edge of his consciousness, the phantom sound of someone calling his name from a place he couldn't see.

Somewhere in Chicago, a ghost from his forgotten past was coming for him. And deep down, in a place that bypassed rational thought entirely, Ethan was beginning to believe that the ghost had every right to be angry.

The carefully constructed life he'd built over the past fifteen years was crumbling, revealing something underneath that he'd never known existed. A debt he didn't remember owing. A friend he'd apparently abandoned. A fire that had changed everything, even though he couldn't remember lighting the match.