Chapter 18
ADRIAN
"Drive faster," I said, though Okonkwo was already pushing the rental car past every speed limit.
Jesse was unconscious in the backseat, his head in my lap. I kept checking to make sure he was still breathing. Each breath was shallow, laboured, like his body had forgotten how to do basic functions.
"Is he—" Rebecca started from the front seat, then stopped herself. She'd been crying since we'd left Restoration Ridge.
"He's breathing," I said, my hand on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall. Christ, his ribs were so prominent now. How much weight had he lost? Thirty pounds? Forty?
Okonkwo was on his phone with the hospital, calling ahead. "Yes, emergency admission. Twenty-one-year-old male, severe dehydration and malnutrition. Possible cardiac complications. We're five minutes out."
I looked down at Jesse's face. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, skin pale and drawn tight. The Jesse who'd kissed me at that debate eight weeks ago had been solid, healthy, real. This version looked like a ghost.
"I've got you," I whispered.
They took him from me the moment we arrived. Gurney, urgent voices, medical terminology I didn't understand. I tried to follow, but a nurse stopped me at the door.
"Family only."
I looked at her, this middle-aged woman with kind eyes and tired scrubs. "I am his family, and he is my family.”
She studied me—young, obviously gay, obviously devoted to the broken boy they'd just wheeled away. Something in my face must have convinced her.
"You and her," she said, nodding at Rebecca. "That's it."
The next hour was a blur of doctors and machines and words that cut like knives: severe dehydration, malnutrition, cardiac arrhythmia. Evidence of repeated electrical burns. Possible brain damage from electroshock therapy.
I collapsed into a chair outside his room. This was my fault. All of it.
If I hadn't pursued him. If I hadn't made him question everything. If I hadn't turned his world upside down for a fucking dare.
The others arrived on the first flights they could catch. Andrew, Diana, Phoenix, Elijah, Sam. My chosen family, rallying around Jesse like he'd always been one of us.
Professor Okonkwo coordinated with the lawyers. A federal investigation was opening into Restoration Ridge. Jesse's parents had been arrested in Kansas, charged with extortion. The wheels of justice were finally turning.
But none of that mattered if Jesse didn't survive.
The doctor emerged after three hours, still in scrubs. "He's stable. But we need to keep him sedated."
"Why?" My voice came out rougher than I intended.
"The psychological trauma is severe. When he's conscious, he's... not present. We're hoping rest and proper nutrition will help before we address the mental state."
Rebecca spoke up from beside me. "Can we see him?"
"Family only. Two at a time."
Rebecca and I went first.
The hospital room was all beeping machines and sterile white surfaces. Jesse looked impossibly small against the sheets, wires and tubes snaking from his body like he was some kind of broken puppet.
I sat beside the bed and took his hand. So fragile in my grip, bones and tendons with barely any flesh between. Rebecca sat on the other side, crying quietly.
"I let this happen," she said.
"We both did."
We sat in silence, keeping vigil. Jesse's eyes moved under closed lids—dreaming or remembering? I hoped dreaming. Anything but reliving what they'd done to him.
The doctors began their full assessment on the second day once Jesse was stabilized.
Dr. Sarah Faraday, the attending physician, called me into a small conference room that smelled like disinfectant and bad coffee.
She had kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, but her expression was grave as she opened Jesse's file.
"Mr. Costas, I need to be very direct with you about Mr. Miller's condition."
I braced myself, hands gripping the plastic chair.
"The damage is extensive," she began, consulting her notes. "We've documented seventeen separate electrical burn scars on his torso, temples, and inner thighs. The pattern suggests repeated electroshock therapy sessions over an extended period."
Each word hit like a physical blow. I tried to imagine Jesse strapped down, electricity coursing through his body, and my stomach lurched.
"His heart shows signs of stress damage—irregular rhythms consistent with repeated electrical trauma. We're monitoring for potential long-term cardiac complications. The good news is he's young and his heart appears to be adapting, but we'll need regular follow-ups."
"What about his weight?" I managed to ask.
"Thirty-five pounds lost in eight weeks. That's severe malnutrition. His body started consuming muscle tissue to survive. We're introducing nutrition slowly—his digestive system needs time to readjust. Too much too fast could be dangerous."
Dr. Faraday flipped to another page, her frown deepening. "There's evidence of prolonged sleep deprivation—likely part of their 'therapy' protocol. The neurological scans show patterns consistent with chronic stress and sleep disruption. His brain is essentially in survival mode."
"Will there be permanent damage?"
"We don't know yet. The human brain is remarkably resilient, especially at his age. But severe trauma can create lasting changes in neural pathways. Memory issues, anxiety responses, difficulty with emotional regulation—these are all possibilities."
She showed me photos from his intake exam. I couldn't look at most of them—the burn marks, the pressure sores from restraints, the hollow gauntness of someone who'd been methodically broken down.
"There's also evidence of what we call 'stress positions'—prolonged confinement in uncomfortable positions. His joints show wear patterns, and he has nerve damage in his shoulders and wrists that's consistent with extended restraint."
"Jesus Christ."
"Mr. Costas, I've been treating trauma victims for fifteen years. What happened to Mr. Miller constitutes torture. There's no medical justification for any of these injuries. What they did to him was absolute abuse designed to break his will."
I felt bile rise in my throat. "When can we talk to him?"
"We're reducing sedation slowly, but you need to understand—the person who wakes up may not be the person you knew.
Trauma this severe changes people. He may not recognize you, may not remember recent events clearly.
His personality, his responses, even his basic emotional capacity—all of that could be different. "
"Different how?"
"He might be hyper-vigilant, unable to trust anyone.
He might dissociate—mentally disconnect from reality when stressed.
He could have panic attacks triggered by seemingly innocent things.
Touch might terrify him. Loud noises, bright lights, being alone, being crowded—any of these could send him into flashbacks. "
She paused, studying my face. "Mr. Costas, I'm telling you this because I can see how much you care about him.
But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that the relationship you had before may not be possible now.
Trauma survivors often struggle with intimacy, trust, even basic human connection. "
"I don't care," I said immediately. "Whatever he needs, however long it takes. I'm not going anywhere."
Dr. Faraday's expression softened slightly. "That's good to hear. Because recovery from this level of trauma isn't linear. There will be good days and terrible days. Progress and setbacks. He'll need a strong support system."
"He has one. We all came here for him."
"I've noticed. That kind of chosen family support is crucial for recovery.
" She closed the file. "We'll start reducing sedation slowly.
But Mr. Costas, when he wakes up, he may not know where he is.
He may think he's still at that facility.
If that happens, don't take it personally.
His mind is trying to protect itself the only way it knows how. "
After she left, I sat in that sterile room for a long time, trying to process everything.
Seventeen burn scars. Heart damage. Nerve damage.
Malnutrition. The clinical terms couldn't capture the reality of what Jesse had endured, but they painted a picture of deliberate cruelty that made me want to destroy something.
I thought about his parents, convinced they'd been doing God's work. The staff at Restoration Ridge, going home to their families after a day of torturing young people. The system that allowed this to happen, that called torture "therapy" and abuse "healing."
My phone buzzed. A text from Diana:
How is he?
I stared at the screen, trying to figure out how to answer. How do you explain that the person you love has been broken down to nothing and rebuilt as a stranger? That every touch, every word, every moment of connection you'd shared might be gone forever?
Alive, That's something.
My friends took shifts in the waiting room, creating a constant presence that the hospital staff initially tried to regulate but eventually accepted.
Diana brought food I couldn't eat, her homemade sandwiches growing stale on the table beside me.
She'd made Jesse's favourites—turkey and Swiss with that honey mustard he liked—and had to keep throwing them away when he remained unconscious.
Phoenix managed social media with surprising restraint, sharing updates about Jesse's condition while building public outrage over Restoration Ridge.
They'd created a hashtag—#JusticeForJesse—that was trending nationally.
News outlets were picking up the story. Useless politicians were making statements.
The facility was under federal investigation.
"The public pressure is working," Phoenix reported during one of their evening updates. "Three more states are introducing legislation to ban conversion therapy for adults. Jesse's case is becoming a catalyst."