Page 28 of Evermore
Breaking Points
River
R iver sat on his cottage floor holding Finn's limp hand, watching the most important person in his world breathe like he was barely tethered to consciousness.
Finn sat up suddenly, his eyes open but unfocused, and began organizing invisible papers with careful precision.
His hands moved through empty air as if handling delicate documents, his expression concentrated and professional.
He reached for things that weren't there, spoke to people who didn't exist.
“The binding needs reinforcement here,” Finn murmured, his voice carrying the confident tone he used when discussing restoration work.
“Late nineteenth century, probably 1880s based on the thread composition.” His fingers traced patterns in the air, following the outline of imaginary books with expert familiarity.
River watched in fascination and growing horror as Finn conducted detailed conversations with invisible customers, demonstrated restoration techniques to empty space, moved through his cottage as if it were a fully functioning bookshop filled with people and projects that existed only in whatever reality his mind was accessing.
“Mrs. Pemberton, I understand your concerns about the water damage,” Finn said, his voice warm with professional compassion as he gestured toward the cottage wall as if it were lined with shelves. “But most of the text is salvageable. Your husband's journal will tell its stories again.”
The conversation continued for twenty minutes, Finn responding to questions River couldn't hear, explaining restoration processes in detail that demonstrated knowledge he'd never shared with River.
He moved through the cottage like a performer in an invisible play, interacting with a world that felt completely real to him but existed nowhere River could see.
When Finn finally collapsed back onto the couch, his eyes closing as if he'd just completed an exhausting day's work, River felt something cold settle in his stomach.
This wasn't just temporal displacement or memory confusion.
Finn was living entire alternate realities, complete with sensory detail and emotional engagement that seemed more vivid than his actual life.
Two hours total. Two fucking hours where Finn had been gone, his body present but his mind somewhere else entirely, leaving River to stare at his face and wonder if this was what losing someone looked like—not all at once, but piece by piece, breath by breath.
“Come back,” River whispered, his voice hoarse from saying the same words over and over. “Please come back to me.”
Finn's eyelids fluttered like he was trying to surface from deep water, his fingers twitching against River's palm. When his eyes finally opened, they were cloudy with confusion, searching River's face like he was trying to place a half-remembered stranger.
“Where...” Finn's voice came out scratchy and uncertain. “I don't... where are we?”
“Home. You're at home with me.” River helped Finn sit up slowly, noting how his coordination seemed off, how he moved like someone learning to inhabit their own body. “You had an episode. A long one.”
“Episode?” Finn looked around the cottage like he'd never seen it before, his gaze settling on familiar objects with obvious bewilderment. “I don't remember... what happened?”
Finn wasn't just losing time during episodes anymore—he was losing the context around them, the framework that connected his experiences into something resembling continuity. Each episode was stealing bigger chunks of his identity, leaving him more adrift in his own life.
“We had a fight,” River said gently, though the admission tasted like failure. “About my research, about how I've been treating your condition. You got upset, and it triggered the episode.”
“We fought?” Finn's confusion was heartbreaking, genuine distress at the idea that he might have hurt River without remembering. “About what? I don't... I'm sorry, I don't remember being angry with you.”
“You weren't angry. You were hurt. Because I've been treating you like a problem to solve instead of a person to love.” River's throat tightened with guilt and grief. “And you were right.”
Dr. Voss arrived twenty minutes later, moving with barely contained excitement as she pulled out a notepad. “I know you don't want monitoring equipment,” she said quickly, “but I need to document this episode. The duration you described is unprecedented.”
She moved closer to Finn, who was still sitting dazedly on the couch, and began her examination with clinical efficiency.
“Two hours of active engagement,” she continued, her eyes bright with scientific hunger as she checked Finn's pupils. “Tell me everything he did, every word he spoke.”
“Why?” River asked, something in her tone making his protective instincts flare. “What aren't you telling us about his condition?”
Dr. Voss paused in her equipment setup, her professional mask slipping slightly.
“My daughter had similar episodes before she died.
Same pattern of temporal displacement, same access to impossible knowledge.
I've been researching this condition for eight years, trying to understand what happened to her.”
The admission hit River like cold water. “Your daughter?”
“Elena. She was twenty-seven when the episodes started. By the end, she was accessing entire alternate realities, living complete lives in her mind while her body deteriorated.” Dr. Voss's voice cracked slightly, revealing grief she'd kept hidden behind scientific objectivity.
“I couldn't save her because I didn't understand the condition well enough.
But Finn's case shows patterns Elena never developed. There might be hope for intervention.”
River felt his world shift as Dr. Voss's motivations became clear. She wasn't just studying Finn—she was trying to solve the mystery that had killed her child, using his condition to unlock secrets that might prevent other families from experiencing her loss.
“What kind of intervention?” River asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Controlled environment monitoring. Medical supervision during episodes. The research potential is enormous, but we need proper facilities.” Dr. Voss's scientific enthusiasm warred with maternal grief in her expression. “I have colleagues who would be very interested in Finn's case.”
“He's not a case,” River said, his protective instincts flaring. “He's a person who deserves dignity and privacy, not medical exhibition.”
“He's a person with a condition that could help us understand what happened to my daughter and prevent it from happening to others.” Dr. Voss's mask slipped further, revealing desperation beneath her professional demeanor. “But we need more controlled conditions to maximize our understanding.”
“Get out.” River's voice was quiet but absolute. “Take your equipment and your grief-driven research and get the fuck out of my house.”
Dr. Voss looked genuinely shocked by his response. “River, you don't understand what's at stake here. If we can document Finn's condition properly, we might be able to prevent?—”
“We might be able to prevent you from using someone else's medical crisis to work through your unresolved trauma about your daughter's death.” River stood up, positioning himself between Dr. Voss and Finn. “Leave. Now.”
After she left with obvious reluctance and thinly veiled frustration, River sat back down beside Finn, who was watching the interaction with growing clarity and concern.
“Was she trying to help me or replace her daughter?” Finn asked, his voice small and uncertain.
“I'm not sure there's a difference to her,” River admitted. “But there sure as hell is to me.”
River's professional life crumbled more gradually than he'd expected, like a sandcastle slowly claimed by rising tide rather than destroyed by a single wave.
Dr. Reeves found him passed out at his lab workstation three days later, surrounded by empty coffee cups and research printouts about neurological disorders that had nothing to do with marine biology.
“This ends today,” Dr. Reeves said, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd made an administrative decision. “You're taking medical leave, effective immediately.”
“I can't take leave. I need?—”
“You need to remember that you're human before you can help anyone else.” Dr. Reeves began packing away his research materials with efficient compassion. “This isn't punishment, River. It's intervention before you completely burn out.”
River wanted to argue, but looking around his lab—at the scattered papers and empty food containers and evidence of his deteriorating ability to maintain basic professional standards—he realized she was right.
He'd become so consumed with solving Finn's condition that he'd stopped functioning as a competent adult.
Jake showed up at the cottage that evening with takeout food and the determined expression of someone prepared for a difficult conversation.
He took one look at River's appearance—unshaven, wearing the same clothes for three days, surrounded by research materials—and set the food down with obvious concern.
“We need to talk,” Jake said, settling onto River's couch without waiting for invitation. “When's the last time you showered? Or ate something that wasn't powered by caffeine? Or had a conversation that wasn't about Finn's medical condition?”
River wanted to defend his behavior, but Jake's observations were uncomfortably accurate. “I'm trying to help him.”
“You're trying to save him. But you can't save someone from a neurological condition through pure force of will.” Jake's voice was gentle but implacable. “When's the last time you and Finn had fun together? When's the last time you laughed about something that wasn't related to his episodes?”