Fried Eggs and Bacon

My life wasn't always this way—holed up in my house, a recluse during the nicest days of the year.

I remember when I was still a child. Just a boy who spent his days going to the beach with his friends, whistling at girls twice our age in their skimpy bathing suits, and catching sunnies with our fishing rods off the dock. They fluttered up out of the murky seaweed to investigate the bait, scales shimmering in the scattered sunlight. Every one of them took it, too. Catching sunfish almost wasn't fair, they made it so easy. My dad would fry them up in hot oil, and then we'd all sit around eating them, laughing.

Like any other family, on the 4th of July, we spent the day outside, grilled hot dogs, toasted marshmallows, and watched fireworks. We took our pontoon out on Labor Day weekend. We rode our bikes along trails. My mom wouldn't let us come in unless it was for a meal.

Nights were a reprieve from the heat, fireflies, and yard games with the neighbor kids. We'd camp out in Randall's treehouse and try to spook each other with ghost stories. Every chance we got, we'd head over to the park down on 4th Ave and play kickball. The dry heat of summer left the weed-covered dirt field in a thick layer of dust that got stirred up just by looking at it. We never minded.

And there was no school. Hell, what kid didn't love summer?

One day, at the height of summer going into seventh grade, the news stations warned town residents that the hottest day on record was going to hit tomorrow. One hundred thirty-five degrees. No clouds. No wind. Nothing but unrelenting heat. It was going to be so hot that they warned everyone to stay inside with their blinds closed and their A/C on—if possible. Get into your basements if you have one.

Of course, my buddies and I would have to see what all the hype was about. The hottest day in history? That's hot enough to cook an egg if you do it right. The night before, Danny called everyone. We would meet on the kickball field at noon, right in the middle of each of our houses.

"Bring an egg and a frying pan," he'd laughed.

My parents usually had to work, but it was a remote day with the severe weather warning in effect. They each had office jobs—my mom at an accounting firm and my dad in marketing. So, they headed to the basement after breakfast to work on their laptops and told me to come down if it got too hot upstairs. We had central air, but the unit was shot and usually couldn't keep the house below seventy-eight degrees on a good day.

At 11:45, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed an egg out of the fridge, and took the frying pan from breakfast off the stove. Quietly, I snuck out the front door.

The air hit me like an open oven door. It stung my nostrils. Heat waves roiling off of the cul-de-sac asphalt, painting the world in watercolors.

Everyone's windows were dark, trying to keep the heat and the sun out. Cars that should have been at work were parked in driveways. My parents' black Jeep was one of them. I was already sweating as I made my way down the driveway. At the hood of the car, I touched the hot metal. I immediately snatched my hand back, hissing in pain. I looked at my pointer finger, the tip of it red and angry. I sucked on it while I kept walking toward the field.

I wasn't even halfway there when I felt like I might keel over. I was completely drenched in sweat, and my breakfast rolled around in my stomach. I caught my reflection in the side of a parked minivan and it was covered in red blotches.

By the time I got to the field, my chest was heaving, my heart was pounding, and I had to ditch the frying pan that was too hot to keep holding onto.

I looked around the open space. Everything was still and silent. No crickets chirped, no cicadas hummed, and all the birds were hidden away. Not even the dust stirred in the oppressive heat. And none of my friends were there either. So I collapsed into a heap in the dirt, waiting to see if any of them would show up or if they were all barred from leaving by their parents. If mine had caught me trying to leave, I knew damn well they would have stopped me, too.

After about five minutes, my head was beginning to feel like a baking cake. My arms felt weak—everything felt weak—but I reached down and grabbed my egg, cracked it along the rim of the frying pan, and let the runny insides splatter into the black basin. And sure enough, that clear ooze began to turn white.

I breathed out a quiet laugh. My throat felt like sandpaper. Then I heaved myself up off the ground. Looking down at the pan, I thought, "I'll come back for that tomorrow." Then everything twirled around like someone had picked me up and spun me. It all went blurry, and the edges of my vision turned black. My body felt like the off-switch had been hit, and something dry and grainy and hard knocked my square in the nose. And then there was nothing.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in a cold room. Everything was white. The only sound was the beeping of some kind of machine. I tried to crack open my eyelids, but the muscles were too tired. Everything felt too tired. My lungs were too tired. So was my head and my arms. My legs didn't budge. But I did manage to twitch a finger.

Then I heard my mom's voice, "Stephen, I think he's waking up." She sounded far away, but I could hear the exhaustion and the pain.

A little closer, I heard my dad's deep voice say slowly, "Billy? Can you hear me, son?"

And then everything faded out.

I remembered dreaming of my grandma, who had been gone since I was eight. I saw her come to me in a hospital bed, which I thought was weird since I'd never stayed in a hospital before. She asked me how I was, I told her about school and my friends and my parents. She brought up a couple of stories from when I was little. Stories that made me laugh—made me miss her. Then she told me about how the next part would be easy. Then there was nothing again.

The next time I woke, I jolted out of the darkness. My eyes burst open wide, and my body convulsed off of the bed. I took in a harsh breath that cut through my lungs, my windpipe, my throat. My heart raced wildly.

Then it was black again.

The beeping came to me first. Then the sound of someone breathing. My eyelids finally had the strength to crack open, and when they did, everything was bright and blurry. My muscles were working again, and I tried to move, but there was a pain in my hand, a tube in my nose, and cords hooked up to me in about ten different places.

"Mom." It felt like the first thing I'd said in about a week.

I blinked and blinked until everything finally laid itself out before me. I was in a hospital bed. It was dark outside. The lights were dim. My parents were sleeping on a couch, cuddled up together and twisted in an awkward position.

"Mom," I rasped again. "Dad."

They stirred awake, looking confused for half a second. Then they saw me, their eyes wide, and bolted to my side.

"Billy," my mom's voice cracked. Tears lined her eyes, and she said, "You're awake!"

My dad was quiet, but his face was puffy and damp with tears, too. A nurse came in, and then everything was a haze of commotion. People were talking and asking questions, taking my vitals, and running reports.

After a little while, the doctor gave me a rundown of what had happened. I'd suffered a sunstroke. They weren't sure how long I'd been out when a police officer had driven by and found me. I was rushed to the hospital, and the ER doctor had been worried it was already too late. There were a few close calls. I'd been in a medically induced coma for the last two weeks. I'd awoken initially, but my vitals weren't looking good, so they thought it would help my body heal.

The doctor ended it by saying, "Unfortunately, Billy, it looks like your body isn't going to respond positively to heat in the future. Anything above the mid-seventies will likely cause you to get sick, probably faint. Higher, and you'll start having seizures. Your body's been through a lot of trauma." She worked to school her face into the calm composure a doctor needed when dealing out bad news, but I could see the pity limning her eyes. That was life-altering news to give to anyone, especially a 13-year-old kid.

"So what does that mean? What do we do?" My mom asked her.

"We can try some treatments to see if we can gently reacquaint his body with hotter temperatures, but it could be dangerous. Otherwise, he'll have to stay in a cool, temperature-controlled space on hot days. I would recommend coming in a few times a year to ensure that his condition isn't worsening, too."

They all continued talking, but their voices faded as my diagnosis settled on me, a weight heavier than the air had been that day on the kickball field. My mind raced through all of the things that I would miss. Barbeques. Kickball games. Parades. Days at the beach. All of it was over. Would my friends even still want to hang out with someone who was allergic to summer?

Two weeks later, I was finally able to go home. My spirits hadn't gotten much better in that time. We'd had to wait until a cooler day before we could leave. They didn't want to risk exposure to any high temps. Especially with my body still healing.

My stomach knotted up more and more the closer we got to our house. When we finally pulled into our cul-de-sac and driveway, I noticed a big banner hanging over the garage door. It read, "Welcome Home Billy!"

The knot in my gut began to unwind, spreading like hot butterflies through the rest of my body.

Who did this?

When we walked in through the front door, all of my friends and their parents were gathered in our living room. There were snacks and gifts and even more decorations—balloons, streamers, and party signs.

I took it all in. Speechless. My eyes were big, and my mouth gaping. I didn't want to cry in front of everyone, but my throat ached with the picture of everyone I loved in one place, welcoming me home after my visit to hell.

Danny parted from the group first. He walked up to me and clapped his hand onto my shoulder, pulling me in close. "I'm sorry, Billy. I'm sorry I had that dumb idea. I'm sorry you got so sick." I didn't know what to say. Before I could, he added, "I'm sorry none of us were there."

Out of all the guys in this room, Danny was my oldest friend. He was the one I felt closest to and had missed the most while I was stuck up in that hospital room. I could see all of the anguish on his face, and I pulled him into a hug.

"It's okay," I reassured him. After everything, it hadn't even crossed my mind to blame him. Or be angry with him.

I felt his body relax as he hugged me back and whispered, "I really missed you."

I let him go, and we each had big smiles on our faces.

To this day, Danny and a few other guys stay holed up with me on the hot summer days, playing video games, watching movies, and talking about whatever. Even though I've yet to stop longing to go out and relive my childhood with every passing summer, I've yet to be alone.