Chapter 5 Pancake
[Freya]
"Please wake up," I pleaded, rocking her gently. "We can start over. I'll do better, I promise. I'll be more patient, more understanding. Just please come back to me."
I spent the day by her bedside, talking to her, reading aloud from her favorite magazines, playing the music she loved on my phone. But there was nothing—no flutter of eyelids, no squeeze of fingers, no sign that she could hear me.
That night, I returned to the empty apartment and swallowed four melatonin pills, then stood under the hot shower, staring at my arms. The bargain hadn't worked. I needed to offer more.
The second night was the same. I sat motionless in the uncomfortable hospital chair, watching the mechanical rise and fall of her chest, listening to the rhythmic beeping that confirmed she was still with me, technically alive. The fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over her features, making her look waxy, already gone. I held her hand, rubbing my thumb over skin that felt too cool, too smooth, nothing like the warm, calloused hands I remembered from childhood. Nurses came and went. The night shift replaced the day shift. Still I sat, afraid that if I left, something would change—not for the better, but for the worse.
And the third night was different. A desperate energy coursed through me as I watched the clock tick relentlessly forward. Seventy-two hours—that's what Dr. Salvatore had said. The deadline for her to wake up, for her brain to show activity, was approaching with terrifying finality.
"Mom, please," I whispered, squeezing her hand so hard my knuckles turned white. "You have to wake up now. You're running out of time. We're running out of time."
By midnight, with no change, something inside me broke. I stumbled out the back entrance of the hospital into the frigid November air. Light snow had begun to fall, dusting the concrete benches with white. I collapsed onto one, not feeling the cold seeping through my scrubs, and finally let myself cry—deep, wrenching sobs that left me gasping.
A low growl cut through my grief. I froze, looking up through tear-blurred eyes.
Standing less than ten feet away was an enormous animal—too large to be a dog, too domesticated in posture to be a wolf. Its dark fur blended with the night, but its eyes caught the hospital's security lights, reflecting an eerie amber glow.
I should have been terrified. Instead, I felt strangely calm as the creature approached, its massive head lowering to my eye level. No collar. No tags. Just wild intelligence in those eyes.
"Hey there," I whispered, voice raspy from crying. "Are you lost too?"
The animal huffed, its warm breath visible in the cold air, and then, incredibly, it sat beside my bench. Without thinking, I buried my fingers in its thick fur and leaned against its solid warmth.
"My mom is dying," I told it, the words pouring out now. "And I can't help her. I'm supposed to be a doctor, and I can't help her."
The creature listened with uncanny attentiveness, occasionally nudging my hand when my voice faltered.
Later—I'm not sure how much later—I remembered the half-eaten sandwich in my bag. "You hungry? Wait here."
I walked to the all-night convenience store down the block and bought a shrink-wrapped hot dog. When I returned and unwrapped it, offering the meat to my strange companion, it turned its head away with what looked remarkably like disdain.
"Too good for processed meat, huh?" I surprised myself by laughing. "Fine, I'll eat it."
As I walked back to my apartment, the animal followed, maintaining a respectful distance but clearly accompanying me. Part of me recognized the insanity of allowing a potentially dangerous wild animal to follow me home, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
In my freezing apartment, it circled twice on the floor beside my bed before settling down, its massive body radiating heat like a furnace. I went straight to the kitchen cabinet where I kept my liquor, pulling out a bottle of cheap whiskey that was already half empty.
"Want some?" I asked the creature, pouring a generous amount into a mug. "No? More for me then."
I didn't bother with ice or water, just took large, burning swallows until I felt the familiar numbing warmth spread through my chest. The animal watched me with those intelligent eyes as I poured a second mugful, then a third.
"You know what I could really use right now?" I said, my words beginning to slur as I slid down the wall to sit on the floor. "Pancakes. Big, fluffy pancakes with syrup." I looked at the creature, giggling as an idea struck my alcohol-soaked brain. "That's what I'll call you. Pancake. You look like a Pancake."
The newly christened Pancake tilted his head, looking remarkably dubious about his name.
"Don't like it? Too bad." I took another long swig. "Pancake it is."
By the time I reached the bottom of the bottle, I was sprawled on the floor, running my fingers through Pancake's thick fur, telling him stories about medical school and my mother that I'd never told anyone.
"You know what would be amazing right now?" I said, suddenly sitting up and immediately regretting the head rush. "Actual pancakes. From that 24-hour diner downstairs." I pointed a wobbly finger at Pancake. "Go! Go get me pancakes, Pancake!"
I dissolved into drunken giggles at my own cleverness. "That's funny because you're Pancake and I want pancakes." I kept laughing until tears leaked from my eyes, though I wasn't sure if they were from humor or something deeper.
Pancake just watched me with those unnervingly intelligent eyes.
"I'm kidding," I mumbled, crawling onto my bed. "Dogs can't buy pancakes. That's silly."
Pancake jumped up beside me, his weight making the ancient springs creak in protest. I curled against his warmth, the room spinning pleasantly around me.
"G'night, Pancake," I murmured, already half asleep. "You probably won't be here in the morning. Nothing good ever stays."
When I woke on Saturday morning—the fourth day since my mother's suicide—my head was pounding and my mouth felt like sandpaper. Pancake was gone from the bed, as I'd expected. I groaned, pressing my palms against my temples, when a smell—sweet and buttery—caught my attention.
I forced my eyes open, wincing at the light. On my rickety kitchen table sat a white paper bag. Dragging myself from bed, I stumbled over and opened it to find a stack of pancakes, still warm, steam rising from their golden surfaces. A small container of maple syrup sat beside them.
I stared at the pancakes, then at my locked door, then back at the pancakes. There was no note, no explanation. Just breakfast, exactly what I'd jokingly asked for, waiting for me as if delivered by magic—or by a creature that couldn't possibly exist.
After showering and devouring the mysteriously acquired pancakes—which were, admittedly, the best I'd ever tasted—I headed to the hospital. The three-day deadline had come and gone, but I still clung to an irrational, desperate hope that somehow my mother would defy established medical principles. Medical science be damned—I wasn't ready to let her go.
When I arrived at my mother's room, I paused in the doorway, my heart sinking. Dr. Salvatore was already there, standing at her bedside, his tall figure silhouetted against the window. His shoulders were set in a rigid line, his expression grave and somber as he studied her chart.