Chapter Text
December 2020
The house was chaos that morning. Voices, shouts, footsteps... it all blended into a frantic rhythm that set Miguel’s nerves on edge.
Carmen was in the living room, speaking rapid Spanish to a nurse from one of the downtown hospitals, her tone teetering between polite and desperate. Johnny stood beside her, one hand on his hip, the other gripping his phone as he waited for another line to pick up. Every few minutes he muttered something under his breath —words Laura wasn’t supposed to hear.
From the couch, Rosa tried to soothe the baby, whispering lullabies that couldn’t drown out the tension in the room. Laura whimpered softly against her grandmother’s shoulder, sensing something was wrong even if she couldn’t understand it.
Miguel sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, staring at the screen as if it might suddenly light up with an answer. He’d already texted everyone he could think of —Hawk, Demetri, Tory, Devon, Kenny, Anthony... even old Cobra Kai members like Kyler.
No one knew anything. Not a clue.
He kept checking the time —eight forty, eight forty-three, eight forty-seven— as if it mattered. Robby’s phone still went straight to voicemail.
Miguel’s throat tightened. He couldn’t stop replaying last night. The neon lights of the club, the thrum of the bass, the fight that started over something stupid and ended with him walking away, leaving Robby standing alone on the sidewalk. He’d told Johnny he didn’t know why Robby had leave the club early. That was only half true.
He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. It was morning already, but it felt like the night hadn’t really ended.
Johnny’s voice carried from the living room —rough, tired, too loud for the quiet panic in the air.
“Dark blond hair… shoulder length… green eyes,” he said into the phone, his tone clipped, mechanical from repetition. “Eighteen years old. About five-seven, lean but strong build.”
Then came the pause —the same one every time. Miguel could almost feel it, that breath Johnny took before forcing himself to keep going.
“He’s... uh… male,” Johnny said, then hesitated. “But… biologically female. Yeah... exactly. Please, just check both. Robby Keene. K-E-E-N-E.”
Miguel looked down at his phone, his stomach twisting. Hearing Johnny say those words out loud hurt more than he expected. Not because Johnny meant it wrong —but because it was the kind of truth that shouldn’t have to be said.
If Robby were here, he’d probably roll his eyes, call it “just paperwork,” and tell everyone to relax. But Miguel knew him too well. It would have cut deep.
Miguel looked up when Carmen suddenly froze mid-sentence. Her expression shifted —confusion first, then disbelief, and finally a burst of raw urgency.
“What? Yes… yes, that’s him,” she said quickly, her eyes going wide as she grabbed Johnny’s arm. “Yes, yes, that’s Robby —it’s him!”
Johnny spun around instantly, his phone still pressed to his ear.
“What? What did they say?”
Carmen didn’t answer him —she was too focused on the voice on the other end, nodding frantically, her free hand trembling as she clutched the phone tighter. “Yes, please! Is he okay?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Johnny didn’t wait for her to finish. He hung up his own call, crossed the room in three strides, and practically tore the phone out of her hand.
“Hello? Yeah, this is his father. Robby Keene. Is he okay?”
Miguel stood up so fast his chair scraped the tile. His pulse thundered in his ears. For a moment, everything else —the ticking clock, the baby’s soft cries, Rosa’s whispering— vanished beneath the sound of Johnny’s voice.
The seconds that followed stretched endlessly, Johnny pacing as he listened. His face went pale, then hard. Miguel couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.
“Yeah… yeah, we’re on our way,” he said into the phone, his voice clipped, urgent. Then he hung up.
All eyes were on him.
“Well?” Carmen asked, her voice trembling despite the effort to sound calm.
“They didn’t say much,” Johnny replied, already moving toward the hallway. “Just told us to get there as fast as we can.”
That was all it took. Carmen didn’t wait for another word —she was already heading for the coat rack, grabbing her jacket with shaking hands. Miguel pushed back his chair, heart pounding, and followed.
Rosa stood by the couch, still holding Laura, her eyes wide and wet. “Por favor, call me as soon as you know something,” she said softly.
“We will,” Carmen promised, slipping on her boots. Then she turned to Johnny. “We have to call Shannon.”
“Yeah, I know,” Johnny muttered, snatching the Dodge Caravan keys from the counter. His jaw was set, his movements sharp, as if keeping busy could hold his fear together.
Miguel grabbed his hoodie and phone from the table, barely aware of what he was doing. The air in the house felt heavier with every second —charged, electric, full of something none of them dared to name.
“Let’s go,” Johnny barked.
The front door slammed behind them as the three of them rushed out into the cold morning light.
The van sped through the streets of Reseda, tires hissing over the damp asphalt. The winter morning light was thin and cold, casting a pale glare over the rows of palm trees stripped bare by the wind. Even with the heater on, the air inside felt sharp enough to bite.
No one spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the dull rattle of loose coins in the cup holder. Carmen sat in the passenger seat, both hands gripping her phone, staring at the screen as if sheer willpower could make it ring again. Johnny drove like every red light was an insult, his jaw locked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Miguel sat in the back, watching the gray city roll by —closed shops, Christmas lights still blinking weakly in the daylight, a Santa decoration swaying in the wind outside a liquor store. Everything looked ordinary, but it all felt wrong.
He tried not to think about last night.
Robby walking ahead of him down the street, his breath turning to mist in the cold air, shoulders tight with anger. The flash of the club’s neon sign fading behind them. The words Miguel wished he hadn’t said —sharp, defensive, cruel.
And then he’d left him there.
Now every second felt like punishment.
He pressed his palms together and lowered his head, the seatbelt digging into his chest. He didn’t pray often —not really— but right then he did. Not to anyone in particular. Just… for Robby to be okay. For this not to be what he feared.
Outside, the freeway stretched north, cutting through the hazy winter light —miles of concrete and cold December air, leading into a future none of them were ready to face.
They pulled into the hospital parking lot twenty minutes later. The building loomed gray and glassy under the pale winter sun, its entrance crowded with ambulances and people in heavy coats. Johnny parked crookedly across two spaces and killed the engine before the van had even stopped shaking.
Carmen was out first, her door slamming shut behind her. Johnny followed close, his expression set and unreadable, like he couldn’t afford to let himself feel anything yet. Miguel stumbled after them, his legs stiff from the ride, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
Inside, the heat and smell of disinfectant hit him all at once. Everything looked too bright —the floors shining, the lights humming, people moving fast in scrubs and masks.
Johnny went straight to the front desk. “We got a call —about my son. Robby Keene.”
The nurse behind the counter looked up, blinking. “One moment, sir.” She started typing.
Carmen hovered beside him, hands clasped so tightly they trembled. Miguel stood a few steps back, scanning every hallway, every face that passed. His chest felt tight, as if the air itself was resisting him.
After what felt like forever, the nurse finally looked up. “Yes, he was brought in early this morning,” she said. “He’s still being evaluated by the trauma team. You’ll have to wait in the emergency waiting room until someone comes to speak with you.”
Johnny frowned. “Wait? For how long?”
“I’m sorry, sir. As soon as the doctor authorizes visitors, they’ll let you know.”
He swallowed. “But... he’s okay?”
“I don’t have that information, sir. I’m sorry.”
Johnny thanked her with a tight nod, then turned toward the double doors leading to the waiting area. The three of them followed in silence, each step slower than the last.
The room was half full —people with tired faces, the low hum of vending machines, a muted TV playing morning news. Miguel sat down beside Carmen, his hands clasped between his knees. Johnny stayed standing, pacing near the window like a man who’d forgotten how to be still.
The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to make Miguel’s skin crawl. Every second felt borrowed.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke through the silence of the waiting room. Miguel looked up just as Shannon appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a heavy coat, her hair slightly disheveled, her face pale and tight with worry.
“Johnny!” she called, spotting them almost instantly. She crossed the room fast, her bag slipping from her shoulder. “What happened? What’s going on?”
Johnny straightened, his expression hardening the way it always did when he didn’t have an answer. “We don’t know much yet,” he said. "Robby... He went out last night with some friends. Didn’t come home.”
Shannon blinked. “And you’re just finding out now?”
“We realized when we woke up,” Johnny said, his tone defensive, weary. “We called the cops, but they said he’s eighteen, so there wasn’t much they could do. They told us to call hospitals. So we did.”
“And you found him here,” she said slowly, piecing it together.
Johnny nodded. “Yeah. They said he’s in trauma care.”
Shannon’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Then her gaze flicked toward Miguel —just a brief, sharp look— before sliding away again. It was enough to make Miguel’s stomach twist. He dropped his eyes to the floor, feeling heat rise in his face. He didn’t know if she could tell, but the guilt was written all over him.
Shannon turned back to Johnny. “But what happened to him?” she demanded, her voice trembling now.
Johnny shook his head. “They didn’t tell us. Just said we had to wait until the doctor comes out.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The muted TV in the corner murmured something about Christmas sales. A little girl across the room was eating chips from a vending machine bag. Everything felt distant, wrong.
Miguel rubbed his hands together, his breath shallow. Waiting was supposed to bring answers. But right now, it only made everything worse.
A man in a white coat appeared at the entrance of the waiting room, scanning the faces inside. When his eyes found them, he hesitated only a second before approaching.
“Family of Robby Keene?” he asked.
Johnny was on his feet before the man had even finished speaking. “Here."
The doctor gave a quick nod. “I’m Dr. Emerson. I’ve been treating your daughter since she was brought in this morning.”
Shannon flinched. “Son,” she corrected sharply. "Our son.”
Dr. Emerson blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I’m sorry,” he said at once, his tone apologetic. “He was admitted as Jane Doe when they brought him in. We didn’t have any identification at the time.”
The doctor cleared his throat softly, regaining his composure. “What matters now is that he’s stable. He suffered multiple contusions, a mild concussion, and some internal bruising, but there are no fractures or internal bleeding. He’s out of immediate danger.”
Shannon and Carmen exhaled, a sound halfway between relief and a sob. Johnny nodded stiffly, his hands clenching at his sides.
“But,” the doctor continued carefully, “he’s been through a lot. He was found early this morning by a passerby near an alley off Ventura Boulevard. The person called 911 immediately. LAPD officers accompanied the ambulance, and the case has been reported as a possible assault. Detectives from the Special Victims Unit will speak with him once he’s ready.”
Johnny’s voice came low but sharp. “What exactly happened to him?”
The doctor hesitated. “Sir, your son sustained injuries consistent with a violent attack —bruising, restraint marks, and indications of… significant physical trauma.” His voice softened further. “Some of those injuries suggest a sexual component, but the forensic nurse examiner —the SANE nurse— will handle that part of the evaluation. It’s his choice whether or not to proceed.”
For a moment, no one breathed.
Johnny froze, his face pale, his whole body rigid. Carmen covered her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking. Shannon’s eyes filled with tears that spilled without sound.
Miguel felt the world tilt around him —the walls, the lights, the smell of disinfectant pressing down on his chest. He wanted to ask something, anything, but his voice wouldn’t come. The only thought that managed to surface, through the static in his head, was the one that hurt most: He was alone. And I left him there.
Johnny swallowed hard. “Can we... can we see him?”
“Soon,” Dr. Emerson said gently. “He’s in trauma care, mildly sedated, but I’ll come get you when he’s ready.”
He glanced at his tablet, then looked up again. “There’s one more thing you should know.”
Miguel felt the air shift —that kind of silence that comes before something you can’t take back.
“The good news,” Dr. Emerson said, a cautious note of relief in his voice, “is that the baby is fine.”
For a moment, Miguel didn’t understand what he’d just heard. Then the meaning hit, and it was like the ground slipped out from under him. His pulse spiked, his breath caught.
The baby.
He blinked, once, twice, staring at the doctor —trying to process words that didn’t seem to belong in the same room as everything else he’d said. Slowly, his gaze moved to Johnny, to Shannon, to Carmen —all three frozen in identical disbelief, their faces drained of color.
It was Shannon who finally found her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone sharp with confusion. “Did you say… baby?”
Dr. Emerson hesitated, his professional composure faltering for the first time. “Yes,” he said carefully. “Robby is pregnant. Approximately sixteen weeks —early in the second trimester. From what we can tell, the fetus appears unharmed. We’ve done an ultrasound and confirmed a strong heartbeat.”
The room went silent again —but it was a different kind of silence now. Heavy, unreal.
Miguel felt his heartbeat in his ears, loud and uneven. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright, the smell of antiseptic too sharp. His mind searched for something to hold on to —a thought, a memory, a single thing that made sense— and found nothing.
Johnny’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Carmen’s hands flew to her lips. Shannon just stared blankly at the doctor, her face unreadable, her eyes wide and glassy.
Miguel wanted to move, to speak, to ask how any of this could be real. But all he could do was sit there, frozen, as the echo of those words —the baby is fine— kept circling through his head, over and over, until they no longer sounded like English at all.
Dr. Emerson blinked, realizing too late the impact of what he’d just said. His eyes moved between them —Johnny, Carmen, Shannon, Miguel— as if trying to understand why no one was speaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice faltering. “I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. I just assumed you knew. It’s... well, it’s fairly evident. I mean, he’s sixteen weeks along.”
The words hung there, heavy and strange, as if the air itself had thickened around them.
Miguel stared at him, uncomprehending. Sixteen weeks. Four months. His mind tried to process it, but everything inside him felt slowed down, disconnected —like sound underwater.
Evident.
He swallowed hard, but his mouth was dry. Images flickered through his head —Robby these past week, his posture slightly hunched, one arm almost always folded across his stomach when he sat. He used to wear tighter clothes —tees, flannels, jackets half-zipped— but lately it had been nothing but oversized sweatshirts, sleeves covering his hands.
Miguel had noticed. Of course he had. He’d even joked about it yesterday, asking if Robby was bringing back his old skater look from when he was fifteen. Robby had just shrugged and said, Yeah, something like that.
Now the memory hit him like a punch to the gut.
He hadn’t seen it.
He hadn’t wanted to see it.
Miguel’s chest tightened until it hurt. Around him, no one spoke —not Johnny, not Carmen, not Shannon. The silence was too deep, too stunned for words.
And all Miguel could think, through the numb static in his head, was that Robby had been walking around with a secret this big —carrying it alone— and not one of them had noticed.