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At first, Robby thinks it’s just fatigue.
That’s the most dangerous part: how reasonable it feels.
He’s barefoot on the kitchen tile, one hip braced against the counter, listening to Jack talk about something mundane—something that should anchor him to normal life. The smell of coffee still lingers in the air. The apartment is quiet in that late-afternoon way, sunlight slanting in warm and forgiving.
Robby shifts his weight.
The floor doesn’t feel different.
He does.
There’s a lag. A strange disconnect between intention and execution, like his body is a half-second behind his thoughts. His right foot presses down, but the sensation arrives late, dulled.
He frowns, lifts his heel.
It comes up—slowly. Unnaturally.
When he sets it back down, his ankle wobbles, just barely, but enough that his heart skips.
“What the hell?” he mutters.
Jack stops immediately. “What?”
Robby straightens, testing himself the way he’s done a thousand times in exam rooms—subtle, controlled movements. He flexes his toes. They move, but sluggishly, like he’s wearing boots made of lead.
“That’s… weird,” he says.
Jack’s already closer now. “Define weird.”
Robby shifts again. This time, his knee nearly gives out. He catches himself on the counter, breath coming sharp and fast.
Jack’s hand clamps around his arm. “Hey.”
Robby lets out a short laugh, brittle. “Okay. That one doesn’t get to be ignored.”
Jack’s face tightens. “Sit.”
Robby opens his mouth to argue—but the effort of standing suddenly feels enormous. He lets Jack guide him into the chair.
The moment he sits, the heaviness blooms.
It spreads upward, a creeping, insidious weight that feels less like weakness and more like being submerged. His calves feel distant. His thighs burn faintly, not with pain but with exertion that makes no sense.
Jack crouches in front of him, eyes scanning his face. “Talk to me.”
Robby closes his eyes, trying to isolate the sensation. “Weakness,” he says. “Symmetric. No pain. No pins and needles.”
Jack swears quietly.
Robby opens his eyes again. “Help me stand.”
Jack hesitates. “Robby—”
“Please.”
Jack braces himself and helps Robby upright.
Robby’s legs fold instantly.
There’s no resistance. No warning.
Just failure.
Jack tightens his grip and hauls him back against his chest, Robby’s feet dragging uselessly across the tile.
For the first time, real fear cuts through Robby’s clinical calm.
“I can’t move them,” he whispers.
Jack’s breathing is loud in his ear now. “Okay,” he says, voice steady by sheer force of will. “Okay. We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
Jack practically carries Robby to the door.
Robby’s legs scrape along the floor, completely inert now. He tries to help—tries to shift his weight, tries to push—but nothing responds.
“I’m sorry,” he pants. “I don’t know—”
Jack cuts him off. “Stop apologizing.”
Outside, the light is too bright. The air too sharp.
Jack wrestles Robby into the passenger seat, arranging him carefully because Robby can’t do it himself. The effort leaves Robby sweating, heart hammering like he’s sprinted.
Jack slams the door and runs around to the driver’s side.
As the car pulls away from the curb, Robby becomes aware of something new.
His arms feel wrong.
He lifts his right arm slowly. It rises—but it trembles, weak and uncoordinated, and when he tries to curl his fingers, they barely move.
“Jack,” he says, voice tight. “It’s in my arms.”
Jack grips the steering wheel harder. “How fast?”
“Minutes, just since we left,” Robby whispers.
His head suddenly feels heavy.
Too heavy.
He tries to hold it upright, but his neck muscles tremble and then give. His chin drops to his chest, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t lift it again.
“I can’t hold my head up,” he gasps, panic surging.
Jack glances over, horror flashing across his face before he schools it away. He reaches over at a red light, bracing Robby’s head gently against the headrest.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “Just stay with me, okay?”
Robby swallows hard.
His breathing feels shallow now. Not labored—not yet—but wrong. Like his chest isn’t expanding fully. Like the effort it takes to breathe has increased without his permission.
He tests it, trying to take a deep breath.
He can’t.
His lungs feel capped.
A cold, primal fear blooms in his gut.
“J-Jack,” he whispers. “Think it’s...going up.”
Jack presses the accelerator harder.
By the time they reach the hospital, Robby can’t lift his arms at all. His head lolls despite Jack’s support. His breaths come fast and shallow, each one feeling less effective than the last.
The ED doors burst open.
Everything moves fast around Robby, but he feels slow—trapped inside a body that’s betraying him.
Hands grab him. A gurney appears. Jack’s voice stays in his ear like a lifeline.
“I’m here,” Jack keeps saying. “I’m right here.”
Robby tries to answer questions, but his voice is weak now, words barely making it past his lips.
“I c-can’t breathe...right,” he manages.
Dana’s face sharpens instantly. “Get him on the bed.”
Langdon is there. Samira too. Their expressions are controlled, but Robby can see the alarm behind them.
“Robby, hey!” Langdon says. “Squeeze my fingers.”
Robby tries.
Nothing happens.
Langdon’s jaw tightens.
Robby’s chest barely rises now. Each breath feels like sucking air through a straw.
He realizes, distantly, clinically, that his diaphragm isn’t working.
Then the realization turns visceral.
I’m suffocating.
The terror is immediate and overwhelming—not pain, not even panic at first, but raw, animal fear. The knowledge that air is all around him and his body will not let him take it in.
His vision starts to narrow.
He tries to gasp. His mouth opens, but nothing useful happens.
“I—” he tries to say.
No sound comes out.
His heart pounds violently, every beat screaming this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong.
Tears spill sideways into his hair as he looks desperately at Jack.
Jack is at his head instantly, hands cradling Robby’s face. “I know,” he says, voice breaking. “I know. We’re not letting you die.”
Robby wants to believe him.
The sensation worsens.
His chest barely moves now. Each attempted breath is a failure. His body is screaming for oxygen, and he can’t give it what it needs.
He claws weakly at Jack’s sleeve.
Jack presses his forehead to Robby’s. “I love you,” he whispers. “We’re going to put a tube in to help you breathe.”
Robby shakes his head frantically.
The idea of losing control—of being trapped even deeper—terrifies him.
“I’m awake,” he tries to say.
The words don’t come.
The edges of his vision darken.
Sedation hits him like a wave.
The last thing he feels is Jack squeezing his hand.
Robby wakes up to someone choking him.
That’s the first thing his brain understands—not where, not when, just the sensation of something wrong in his throat and a violent, instinctive need to get it out.
His eyes fly open.
Bright light. White ceiling. Something hard and plastic lodged deep in his airway.
He panics immediately.
His body tries to jerk upright—tries to claw at his throat—but nothing moves. His arms don’t respond. His legs are gone entirely. Even his fingers won’t curl.
I’m paralyzed.
The realization hits like ice water.
His breathing is loud now, mechanical, forced—air being pushed into him rather than drawn by his own effort. The sound is alien, horrifying, a reminder that his body has failed at the most basic task there is.
His heart slams wildly in his chest.
He tries to scream.
Nothing happens.
Panic explodes.
His eyes dart frantically around the room, vision blurring at the edges as his heart rate spikes. Tears well instantly, spilling sideways into his hair.
I’m awake. I’m trapped. I can’t breathe on my own.
Jack’s face fills his vision, too close, too intense—eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched, fear barely held in check.
“Hey,” Jack says quickly, urgently, his voice the only familiar thing in the world. “Hey, Robby, you're okay. You're just on a vent, alright? Just for a bit, I promise.”
Robby wants to scream, to fight, but his body does neither. His eyes are wild, begging.
Jack presses a hand flat against Robby’s chest, grounding. “I know it feels like you’re suffocating,” he says softly. “But the machine is breathing for you. You’re getting air. I promise.”
Robby doesn’t believe him.
The tube feels wrong. Every instinct he has is screaming get it out get it out get it out.
His heart rate monitor starts screaming instead.
Jack notices immediately. “Hey—hey—look at me,” he says, lowering his voice, slowing his words. “You’re not dying. You’re not back there. This isn’t happening again.”
Jack leans closer, forehead pressed gently to Robby’s temple. “Blink for me,” he says. “Just blink.”
Robby blinks desperately.
“Good,” Jack says. “That’s it. You’re here with me.”
The panic doesn’t stop—but it loosens its grip just enough that Robby doesn’t completely lose himself.
As the minutes pass, Robby becomes horrifyingly aware of how little control he has left.
He can move his eyes.
That’s it.
His chest rises and falls, but not because of him. His arms lie heavy at his sides, foreign objects he can’t command. His neck muscles are useless; his head is supported entirely by pillows and positioning.
He tries to swallow.
The tube makes it impossible.
Tears leak constantly now—not dramatic sobbing, just steady, helpless grief.
Jack never leaves his side. Instead, he stays close, narrating everything.
“They’re adjusting the vent,” Jack murmurs. “Your oxygen’s good. Your heart rate’s coming down.”
Robby stares at him, eyes pleading.
Jack understands anyway.
“I know,” Jack says quietly. “Being awake like this is terrifying.”
Robby blinks hard.
“Yes.
Jack swallows. “You’re not crazy. You’re not weak. This is real, and it’s awful, and it’s not your fault.”
Something in Robby cracks open at that.
He blinks again, slower this time.
Jack notices the change immediately. “You’re still thinking,” he says, a note of fierce pride cutting through his fear. “That’s good. We need that.”
A doctor steps into view—Langdon.
“Robby,” Langdon says calmly, making sure he’s in Robby’s sightline. “We’re still trying to figure out what’s causing this.”
Robby’s eyes flicker.
Langdon continues, “If you can answer questions by blinking, that helps us.”
Robby blinks once.
“Yes.
Jack squeezes his hand—even though Robby can’t feel it.
They start with simple questions.
Do you know where you are?
Yes.
Did you take anything new?
No.
Any recent illness?
No.
They go in circles.
Robby’s mind races, desperate to contribute, to do something useful while his body lies useless.
Then—through the fog of terror and sedation—something surfaces.
A memory.
A lecture slide.
A case report.
A weird zebra diagnosis he’d read once and never thought he’d see.
Ascending paralysis.
Normal imaging.
Rapid respiratory failure.
Fully conscious.
His heart pounds.
Tick paralysis.
He tries to signal urgently, but only his eyes respond.
Jack notices immediately. “He wants something,” he says. “Robby? You trying to say something?”
Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes
They go letter by letter. Every time Robby blinks yes to a letter, Jack jots it down until the picture conencts.
T I C K
P A R A L Y S I S
The room freezes.
Langdon exhales sharply. “When were you last outside?”
Jack answers instantly. “Hiking. Four days ago.”
Dana swears under her breath. “Full body check. Now.”
Robby’s eyes burn with urgency.
Please be right.
They find the ticks at the hairline and behind the knee.
Two of them.
Embedded. Missed. Silent.
When they’re removed, nothing happens at first. Then—slowly—almost imperceptibly—Robby’s chest begins to move. Just a fraction, but still a breath that’s his.
Langdon notices. “There,” he says quietly. “He’s initiating.”
Jack presses a hand to Robby’s chest, eyes shining. “Remind me to never complain about all of your journal subscriptions ever again,” he whispers.
Robby’s vision blurs with tears.
Over the next hours, the fog lifts.
Strength trickles back like blood returning to a numb limb—painful, overwhelming, miraculous.
When they finally extubate him, Robby sobs openly, gulping air like it’s the first time he’s ever had it.
Jack holds him through it, shaking just as badly now that the crisis has passed.
Even days later, Robby can’t shake the memory of suffocation.
He startles awake at night, gasping.
He keeps checking that his chest is moving.
Jack stays close—always close.
He helps Robby shower, sit, eat, sleep.
He doesn’t rush him.
One night, Robby admits quietly, “I thought I was going to die aware.”
Jack closes his eyes and holds him tighter. “I know.”
They don’t talk about how close it came.
They don’t need to.
Robby sleeps eventually, curled against Jack’s chest, breathing steady and his own.
Jack stays awake a while longer—just listening.
The first time Robby wakes up gasping, Jack thinks something is medically wrong again.
It’s the sound that does it — the sharp, panicked inhale, the way Robby’s whole body jerks as if he’s been yanked back into the world against his will. Jack’s already halfway out of bed before Robby’s eyes even open.
“Mike? Hey!” Jack says urgently, hands on Robby’s shoulders. “Hey, look at me. What's wrong? Is it your breathing?”
Robby’s eyes are wide, glassy, unfocused.
“I can’t—” he chokes. “I can’t—”
Jack presses his palm flat against Robby’s chest, grounding, firm. He listens for moment. Fast, but deep and strong. The realization hits him. “Shhhh, you can breathe, I promise. Feel that? That’s you.”
Robby drags in another breath — too fast, too shallow — like he doesn’t trust it to stick around.
His hands come up to his throat instinctively, fingers digging in as if he needs to make sure nothing is there. The memory is visceral: plastic against vocal cords, air forced instead of drawn, the absolute certainty that he was dying awake.
“I thought...happening again,” Robby whispers, voice hoarse. “I thought it was happening again.”
Jack pulls him close, Robby’s forehead pressed into Jack’s collarbone. He can feel Robby shaking — not from cold, but from a nervous system that doesn’t know how to stand down.
“I know,” Jack murmurs. “Your body remembers before your brain catches up.”
Robby swallows hard. “I keep replaying it. The moment I knew. I knew I was suffocating.”
Jack closes his eyes.
“I’ve seen people die like that,” Robby continues, voice hollow. “I always thought— at least they’re not aware the whole time.”
His grip tightens in Jack’s shirt. “I was.”
Jack presses a kiss into Robby’s hair, jaw clenched so hard it aches. “But you survived it.”
Robby lets out a bitter, shaky laugh. “My body doesn’t agree.”
Over the next days, it shows up everywhere.
Robby startles when Jack’s arm drapes across his chest in sleep. He panics if a blanket is pulled too high. He finds himself consciously monitoring his breathing — counting inhales, checking depth, making sure nothing feels “off.”
Once, in the shower, steam fills the small space too quickly and Robby bolts out, dripping and shaking, gasping like he’s been underwater.
Jack doesn’t question it. He wraps Robby in a towel and holds him until the panic burns itself out.
At night, Robby admits the worst part in a small, broken voice:
“I don’t trust my body anymore.”
Jack cups his face. “Then borrow mine,” he says simply. “I’ll watch you breathe until you believe again.”
And he does.
Jack waits until Robby is asleep.
Not drifting. Not resting. Asleep — deep, even breaths, muscles finally slack with real exhaustion instead of fear.
Only then does Jack let himself leave the bedroom.
He closes the door softly behind him and stands in the hallway, hands braced against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
The adrenaline drains out of him all at once.
His knees buckle.
Jack slides down the wall and sits hard on the floor, breath coming fast and uneven now that he doesn’t have to be strong for anyone else.
He presses the heel of his hand against his mouth to keep from making a sound — because Robby needs rest more than Jack needs release.
His hands start shaking.
He thinks about Robby in the car, head lolling helplessly, eyes locked on Jack with pure terror.
He thinks about Robby’s chest barely moving, about the moment the realization crossed his face — I am suffocating and I cannot stop it.
Jack squeezes his eyes shut.
“I almost lost you,” he whispers to the empty hall.
The guilt hits next — brutal, precise.
I should’ve noticed faster.
I should’ve called 911.
I should’ve checked him after the hike.
He knows intellectually that none of that is fair. He knows the definition of hindsight bias.
But guilt doesn’t care about fairness.
Jack bows forward, forearms resting on his knees, breathing through the familiar tightness in his chest — the one he knows too well from his own past, from moments where everything almost went wrong.
He lets himself cry silently, shoulders shaking, tears dripping onto the floor.
For a long time, he just sits there, breaking in pieces small enough not to wake Robby.
Eventually, his breathing slows.
He wipes his face with the heel of his hand and stands, steadying himself.
Before he goes back into the bedroom, he pauses — hand on the door, listening.
Robby’s breathing is even. Real. Present.
Jack exhales shakily.
He slips back into bed and wraps himself around Robby from behind, careful not to crowd him, one hand resting lightly over Robby’s chest.
He counts breaths — not because he’s afraid anymore, but because loving someone who almost died rewires you permanently.
Robby shifts slightly, murmurs something unintelligible, and settles again.
Jack closes his eyes.
For the first time in days, he lets himself sleep.