6 Hospital

October 4, 2001

The sun's rays made their way through the windows into the ward in which Peter and an elderly doctor of medium height were at the moment. Because of the light falling on the man, Peter began to feel that his already contented pale face with huge black bags under his eyes was becoming even more frail and tired.

Every day he visited Peter's ward, and it was he who diagnosed him when he got here. Today was no exception at all — Peter watched with an absolutely calm look as his doctor made brief, and sometimes huge and sloppy entries in his journal and constantly nodded to something.

—That's just wonderful, Peter! "Incredible!" he screamed. Less than a month has passed, and you are already completely healthy.

Peter only smiled at these statements, indignant in his heart. For several weeks now, he has been telling this man and the nurses day after day that everything is fine with his health and he is not in danger. But they managed to find excuses every time, which sometimes annoyed him very much. It was not uncommon for him now to hear how little he knew about his body and that he should listen to doctors more.

—Thank you, Mr. Jacobs," he said to the doctor, "If it wasn't for you, I don't know if I would have been able to get better so quickly.

— What are you, what are you, my boy! — He began to tell Peter with satisfaction. — Besides, how many times have I asked you to call me by my first name, because we are friends! Just Garison!

Hearing these words, the silver-haired man just smiled, this time sincerely. He stared into the tired, but still full of life eyes of an elderly man. He liked this elderly man, the way he communicated with other people and how easily he found a common language with other children sometimes made Peter admire him. He has always been impressed by such people: sincere and friendly. He very often caught himself thinking that he would very much like to be the same.

—Of course, Mr. Jacobs,— Peter said with a smile.

"You know you make me feel old, don't you?" — He said with a fake grimace in response.

"Well, it's not surprising," Peter raised one eyebrow. — How old are you? Eighty? Ninety?

— I'm fifty-five Peter, fifty-five…

— Yeah?! He almost shouted back, not at all feigned.

He ran his eyes over the man's face once more: almost bald, his face full of wrinkles, huge bags under his eyes. All this was very much catching up on this man's extra age. People who were not familiar with this person could sometimes have a feeling as if he was on his last legs. It is only necessary to push him, as he will immediately turn to dust.

—Yes," Garison replied resignedly, "you know, sometimes you remind me very much of my granddaughter. She's only 6, but she never once called me 'Grandpa Gary,' he smiled like an old man. — She sees in me some old man who can't take a step without a cane, constantly calls me 'Mr. Grandpa,'" he laughed at the end. — Don't let my appearance deceive you, I'm still full of the power of youth!

Garison abruptly stood up, almost jumped from his perched chair near Peter's couch, throwing his magazine and pen on the nightstand. Perhaps he wanted to show Peter that he was still full of strength and not so old. That's just when he did it, there was an unpleasant crunch in the room and he had to sit back in his seat with a groan, massaging his back.

"You're not as young as you think, after all," Peter chuckled to himself. — Sometimes it's better to accept reality.

— Aren't you too young to philosophize on such topics? Garison's pained voice sounded skeptical in response. "But you know, you're right about something. Sometimes it's better to just accept the truth as it is, no matter how inexplicable it is.

Inexplicable… Peter was overcome by negative emotions at this word. He still could not explain to himself and give a logical definition of what happened then, on the night of his mother's murder. He spent a lot of time thinking about it, but never came to a clear explanation. One guess seemed funnier to him than the other: from a killer who could just break into their house to aliens. Only an ordinary murderer could not have created what was in the house, and the police did not find any traces. But the alien version was simply absurd, but he very often returned to this idea for lack of something more worthy.

Noticing the quiet and thoughtful boy, Garison regretted what he had just said. The tragedy that happened to him struck a lot of people from the medical staff. Gary himself was no exception. At such an early age, to lose the only member of his family and be left completely alone seemed to him something unbearable. Peter amazed him with how easily he communicated with him, even despite the recent loss. He did not withdraw into himself, but tried to smile so as not to make others worry about himself. It was worthy of respect.

Recently, the police informed Garison that the boy would have to be picked up by his aunt. She was supposed to come for him tomorrow. But apparently, the boy will have to stay here for another week. This morning he received a message on the phone sent by a relative of Peter. She will be delayed for personal reasons in her city. This made Garison angry at the first reading. In his understanding, it was unthinkable to leave a relative so close by blood, who had recently experienced moral and mental trauma. It was good that he was the director of the hospital, and he had the right to stay here for another week for Peter.

"You know, my boy," he said, getting up from his chair, this time slowly and carefully. — I perfectly understand what it's like when you lose a relative.

Rising to his feet, he took the cane propped against the couch in his hand. He put his other hand on Peter's shoulder and looked fatherly into the boy's blue eyes.

— Sometimes it's really better to accept the pain and accept the loss. We are not superheroes, we have to live our lives as best we can. It is not in our power to take and change the time.

Removing his hand from Peter's shoulder, Garison lifted the magazine from the bedside table and headed for the door. Peter watched him go, his gaze even more thoughtful than a minute ago. Before leaving the room, the elderly man turned to the boy's face.

— Sometimes I think it would be good to have super-speed. So I could always keep up with everything at once: help those in need and come to their rescue at any time, even to relatives. And it would be even better to be able to stop time," he closed his eyes thoughtfully. — Don't burden yourself with depressive thoughts, my boy. Sometimes it's better to just let go than to hold on.

With these words, he left the ward, leaving Peter sitting on his couch in proud solitude.

"Super—speed, huh?" he whispered to himself after a short pause.

His left hand came out from under the blanket, and after a second he was examining it with his gaze. He looked at her thoughtfully. Memories of that day flashed through my head. It was then that he awakened his power.

Uncertainly, he begins to turn his wrist from side to side, gradually accelerating the pace. At first, the hand moved as usual, but after that it began to build up a huge pace. And after a few seconds, an unpleasant, vibrating sound was heard in the room. He reminded Peter quite a bit of the sounds of air dissection, when you move an object so hard and fast that it begins to dissect the air.