Peter is in the car when it happens, but he doesn't remember anything.
The seat belt, the doctors tell his uncle later, while they think Peter is asleep, broke a few of his ribs, bruised his sternum, and knocked the wind out of him so forcefully it probably also knocked him unconscious the second the car collided with the eighteen-wheeler. No head injuries though, they assure him. Really lucky, considering the state of the car, and its other two passengers. Miraculous, when you think about it. No concussion, no brain damage. The memory loss is a result of the blackout, which was a result of a sudden, violent removal of all of the air from his lungs.
A sudden, violent removal.
Peter might not remember the accident, but he will remember that phrase for a long time.
Uncle Ben comes in a moment later and sees that Peter is awake. He freezes in the doorway, a rumpled blur, far enough away that Peter can only imagine how worn-out his face must be. The impression of grief is somehow sharper than the reality, makes a sensation like swallowing jagged ice arrive in Peter's throat—and then Uncle Ben takes a step toward him and the reality is worse.
Of course it is. That's how grief works.
"Hey, Peter," he says. His voice is hoarse. His eyes are red-rimmed. But he's not crying as he sits on the edge of the bed. "You're supposed to be asleep, bud."
"Where are my glasses?" says Peter.
It's not what he means to say. What he means to say is, Where are my mom and dad? but his mouth doesn't seem to be taking orders.
Uncle Ben blinks down at him.
"I'm… gonna have to get you some new ones, I think."
"You are?" Peter says.
Why isn't my dad going to do it?
Uncle Ben's adam's apple bobs.
"Yeah, Pete. I am."
"So I'm going home with you."
So they're dead.
Uncle Ben nods.
Peter starts to cry. For the first time, it's exactly what he means to do.
After the bandages come off and the physical pain recedes, there's a settling period. A period where the tears, such a welcome relief that first day in the hospital—proof that he still had some control over his own body—become a terrible, unpredictable presence, rising up so suddenly and frequently Peter starts to feel like the sadness controls him instead of the other way around. Peter cries when Ben shows him his new room (which isn't really new, because Peter has stayed there when his parents were on business trips and on "family weekends," but now it's not the guest room, it's his). He cries when Ben sets a plate of overcooked spaghetti in front of him their first night together. He cries in front of his whole fifth-grade class on his very first day, because apparently no one told the teacher's aide why he transferred and the first thing she does when she introduces him is ask him to tell the class what his parents do for work.
(A kid named Flash laughs at him for it at recess. Another kid, Ned, tells Flash to eat dirt. It's the one good thing to come out of the day.)
But there are other times it happens, too. Weird times, times when Peter isn't thinking about his parents or even thinking about anything at all—and suddenly there are hot tears pouring down his cheeks, or he's reaching for his inhaler, his lungs suddenly empty. It happens while he's doing his homework, teardrops turning fractions into smudges of graphite. It happens while he's watching Spongebob on a Saturday morning.
He tries to hide it from Ben. Not all of it: that would be impossible. But the unexplained tears, at least, he tries to cover up by rushing to the bathroom or turning away until they stop. Peter doesn't want Ben to ask why he's crying, because Peter doesn't know, and he's afraid if he can't explain it, Ben will think he's broken.
Peter's afraid he might be broken.
And besides, he knows Ben didn't ask for this.
Peter has always liked Ben a lot. Whenever he would come here before they would watch old black-and-white horror movies with Ben's wife, or Ben would take him to Coney Island, or they would fix things together in the rusty old storage unit Ben rents in Jersey… but even at ten years old, Peter knows there's a difference between a day at the fair and having to live with a kid twenty-four seven. Whenever those inexplicable tears rise, Peter remembers something Ben used to say when he would drop him off at the end of one of those weekends: I do not know how you people keep up with this little Tasmanian devil. Thank goodness I'm allowed to give him back.
Ben said it like it was a joke. His parents used to laugh. Peter used to laugh. He thinks he did. But looking back now, he can't quite remember the inflection, and when he tries to recall the expression on Ben's face when he said things like that, the memory-Ben's face goes all shadowy, like one of the monsters in those old horror flicks.
What if Ben still wants to give him back?
So Peter hides this maybe-brokenness. He hides it in fogged-up bathroom mirrors and sleeves pressed to his mouth and half-hidden glances when his uncle isn't looking. He hides it well, he thinks.
Until, one day, he can't.