Macaroni babeyyyyyy

“Do you have the clamp?” BJ asks, and Hawkeye nearly stops the Jeep. The entire goal of this trip is to demonstrate their microclamp to a nearby(ish) unit, so it’s a bit late in the game to ask that question. 

“What do I mean, do I have the clamp? We’ve been driving for five hours.”

“Well, do you?”

“I thought you were supposed to bring it.”

“Shut up; I know you have it,” BJ laughs. 

“Tell me, what would you have done if I’d said no?”

“I’d have said ‘Hawk, you’re my best friend, and we’re gonna figure this out together.’”

“Heartwarming, but I’m afraid not so constructive.”

“Then it’s a good thing you have it.”

“Who said I have it?” he asks lightly. Still, for all BJ’s efforts to keep his spirits up, it takes only a moment for the road ahead to reclaim his focus and tighten the muscles in his shoulders and neck, prompting the pained expression BJ had been hoping to alleviate to wash over his face again.

“You’re sure you don’t need me to take over driving?” he asks. “You look beat.”

“It’s not much further. I’m just sore.” 

“You’ll feel better after you move around a bit.”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to lying down,” he admits. “I’m exhausted.”

“That works, too,” BJ says. “Just let me know if you need me to drive.” 

“Mhm,” he hums, pressing his hand idly to his temple once again without another word.

The second that his temporary bed is in his line of sight about an hour later, Hawkeye’s arms give out, his meager luggage falling to the floor with a thud. 

“Tired?” BJ asks, even though he knows the answer. It’s obvious just by looking at him: his pale face, his glassy eyes, his slumped posture. He leaves his bags where they land and beelines for the bed, immediately lying face down. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” BJ says, as if that’s a possibility here. “If we don’t get to the mess soon, we’re going to miss dinner.”

“Good riddance.” 

“Come on, Hawk. I know you’re tired, but you haven’t eaten all day. You’ve got to be hungry.” 

“Nauseous, actually.” BJ frowns. 

“From the drive?” 

“Probably. I think I’m just going to turn in early.” 

“It’s not even dark out.” 

“Sleep. I’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow, promise.” Then, he’s asleep too fast for BJ to argue. He’ll bring him a plate, he thinks. It’ll be cold, but at least it’ll be something. For now, he moves Hawkeye’s luggage from the doorway and places a blanket over him. 

By the time BJ checks in with the Colonel and eats dinner, he’s not expecting Hawkeye to still be sleeping. The drive hadn’t been that long, and it’s been over an hour and a half since he crashed into bed. However, that’s where he finds him, on his side, facing the tent wall opposite the doorway. He approaches the bed and shakes his shoulder lightly. 

“Hawkeye,” he calls, “wake up.” 

“Mm?” he groans. “What do you want? I’m trying to sleep.”

“You’ve been succeeding. The Colonel wants us to take a little tour of the camp so we can familiarize ourselves.”

“Why don’t you do the tour and I’ll go where you go for the next few days?”

“Then what if I get lost? We’ll both be AWOL.” Hawkeye doesn’t move. “Come on, I’m sure it won't take long. I’m tired, too. We’ll hit the hay as soon as we finish, yeah?”

He doesn’t look convinced, and honestly, when he sits up, he can see plainly why he’s complaining. Sleep clearly needs to come sooner rather than later, but this is important. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be insisting, and Hawkeye knows it. 

“Ugh. Alright. Show me to the gondola.”

Their tour guide, a lovely nurse named Jean, takes them from their tent to the OR to post-op to the mess, explaining every tent in between. 

“These are the nurses’ tents,” she points, and BJ braces himself for a joke that doesn’t come. In fact, Hawkeye has been quiet through the entire thing. He’s pretty sure he didn’t introduce himself. BJ had done that for the both of them. Had he even shaken her hand?

He decides to keep a close eye on him. What could be annoyance at his lack of participation is quickly overshadowed by pity. With every passing minute he looks a little paler, his eyes a little duller. 

“This is a pretty big camp you’ve got here,” Hawkeye says breathlessly as they approach the mess tent. The short walk seems to have been enough to tucker him out, so it’s a good thing this is the last stop.

“Is it?” she asks. “I didn’t think we’re bigger than the 4077th” 

“They’re pretty similar,” BJ interjects. “I think he’s just tired.”

“Oh!” Jean chirps, getting the hint. “I’ll get you back to your tent next. This is the mess. The food isn’t great, but it’s tepid, inoffensive, and vaguely identifiable.”

“What more can you ask for?” BJ asks. When Hawkeye suddenly reaches out and grabs his shoulder, he thinks at first that he’s finally taking the opportunity to make a joke, but it quickly becomes apparent that’s not the case when he puts his weight into it. He’s not just getting his attention—he’s steadying himself. BJ turns around expecting to chat and ends up grabbing him by the arms as he wobbles on his own feet. 

“Woah!” he exclaims as Hawkeye’s knees nearly go out from under him. He manages to catch himself, but not without BJ’s help. 

“Dr. Pierce!” 

“Easy,” he says calmly, helping to ease him to the ground with his head between his knees. “You okay?”

“Sorry, sorry. Just got a little vertigo for a second, there,” he explains, face pallid and sweat-sheened and genuinely miserable. Guilt creeps in. Maybe he should have just let him sleep. 

“It’s been a long day,” BJ says sympathetically, hand never leaving his shoulder. “I think we’ve got the gist of the layout, so we should probably get some rest.”

“Of course,” Jean agrees. “Let me see you back to your tent.” 

“Think you can walk that far?” BJ asks. Hawkeye nods, but whether that’s genuine or because he just wants to go back to bed is up for debate. “Alright. Up we go.”

The going is slow, but they manage to reach the tent and get him lying down. Jean retrieves a cup of orange juice and tells them to let her know if they need anything, then departs for the evening. Hawkeye sips at his juice a little at a time. 

“I probably should have brought you something from the mess tent for dinner. I don’t know why I didn’t think to.”

“Not your fault, Beej. I wouldn’t have eaten it, anyway.”

“Stomach’s still choppy?”

“My other organs are hoisting the main sails.” A few red flags raise.

“You shouldn’t still be motion sick. It’s been hours.”

“I’m starting to think it’s a migraine,” he replies, shoving his face into his pillow. “My head’s killing me now, too.” 

“You could have told me that earlier. I wouldn’t have forced you on that tour. Want me to bring you something for it?” 

“I’m just going to sleep it off. I’ll be fine in the morning.” 

“Okay. But let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Will do,” he promises before rolling over on his side. It’s rare for him to get this ill, BJ thinks. Exhaustion is usually a bonding experience, and he’s never shy about reveling in the misery, especially when he’s got a captive audience—say, someone who is empathetic, owes him for a long drive, and has offered to get him anything he needs. For him to be so isolated and quiet is unusual. 

“Hawk,” he says quietly. “Remember to take your boots off.” 

“Hm,” is the only answer he gets before deciding it’s probably best to give him some peace and quiet. 

It’s boring to have to go solo for the rest of the evening. He’d known that Hawkeye would be tired, but he’d expected that to end in a few beers at the officer’s club, not an early sleep in a dark, silent room. BJ chats up a few of the other doctors, explaining that Hawkeye would be with them if it weren’t for a bad migraine, so they show him the medicine cabinet in case he changes his mind on taking something for it. They seem nice enough, even nicer when they offer to buy him a drink for a glimpse at the microclamp a little early. 

By the time he’s ready for bed, he’s had two beers, made three new friends, and is feeling pretty good. Hawkeye is still passed out, has barely moved. There’s a small part of him, some instinct that wants to wake him to check in, but he quickly stifles it. There’s no need, and it would only piss him off to be pulled from sleep just to satisfy a strange hunch. Instead, he changes, then notices something—Hawkeye hasn’t even taken his shoes off. 

They’ve all been there. Hawkeye has pulled bloody scrubs off BJ when he’s too exhausted to move to do it himself. He’s even helped Charles into pyjamas a few times when he’s been hunched over a patient for so many hours his shoulders spasm just thinking about moving them. It’s not that it’s new to him to remove his boots, but it does strike him as odd, especially given that he’d reminded him before he’d fallen asleep. Some kind of risk vs. reward assessment had been run and come up in favor of sleeping in his shoes rather than take them off himself or ask for help. Just how bad is this migraine?

He tugs at the laces and gently wiggles them off his feet without waking him. For a long moment, his gaze lingers over his sleeping form, hoping that he’ll somehow be able to diagnose a problem lurking under the surface if he looks long enough. 

He promised he’d sleep this off, he reminds himself. Said he’d be fine in the morning. 

With that, he changes and settles into bed himself. 

But bad things always happen in the middle of the night. Whether it’s patients suddenly circling the drain or more wounded coming in by chopper, it feels like it’s always right in the middle of his sleep cycle. When BJ wakes from a rare good dream, he doesn’t know what woke him, but something feels off. He waits for a moment. Most likely he’d been pulled from sleep by a sound, so he’s silent and still until he hears it again. 

Fabric rustling. Wood creaking. 

To his surprise, it’s Hawkeye, thrashing periodically in bed. 

“Hawkeye,” he whispers. It’s been a while since he’s had night terrors, but perhaps it’s nerves. BJ is feeling some, too. All he knows is that if he doesn’t stop this before the peak of the nightmare, it’s going to be a whole lot worse in a few minutes. 

“Hey, Hawkeye.”

He thrashes again, too deeply asleep to reply. Reluctantly, BJ gets to his feet and crouches beside Hawkeye’s with the intent of soothing him, but up close, he can see trouble. He’s not just thrashing, but shivering, too, and badly. In the low light of the lantern he flips on, his face is even paler than it was a few hours ago, and his shirt is covered in sweat. Now, with a little more urgency, he reaches out and shakes his shoulder, gently at first, then a little more, then with a surprising amount of force. He’s normally such a light sleeper. Something is very wrong. 

He bolts up in bed, breathing hard and fast and looking like he’s going to try to run if BJ doesn’t put his hand to his chest as if to tell him to stay down, that he’s safe, that whatever he’s seeing in his sleep that can’t hurt him half as bad as being awake. Sticky, humid heat radiates off of him, so he moves his hand to Hawkeye’s forehead, then his cheeks. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Hawkeye, are you with me?” 

His eyes scan the room, frantic and unfocused, and his breathing isn’t slowing.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. You had a nightmare.” He gives him a moment to process that, to slow his rapid respiration and heart rate, before dropping bad news. “You’re burning up. How are you feeling?” 

“Like I might need to see a doctor,” the admits. 

“I think I know a guy. I’m going to go to raid their med cabinet and see what I can scrounge up for that fever. Think you could eat something?”

“Just the pills, Beej. I can’t.” 

“Alright. I won’t force it on you right now. Don’t go to sleep until I come back to look you over.”

“Hm,” he lies. 

By the time BJ returns to their temporary tent with supplies, he has to wake him once more, and it’s no easier than it had been the first time. He’s agitated, scared, even. BJ hands over a thermometer and fiddles around while he waits for the reading. 

“Your pulse is racing,” he announces, two fingers pressed to the inside of his wrist.

“Just a nightmare.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so. How long have you been feeling this bad?” BJ hangs a bottle of Ringer’s lactate from the IV pole and slips the needle into Hawkeye’s arm.

“Not sure. Just kept feeling worse every time I woke up.”

“You should have said something. Are you in pain anywhere? Head still bothering you?” 

“Everything hurts. Feels like I got run over by the Jeep.” That doesn’t sound good. 

“Sounds like you’re coming down with the flu.”

“No, no. Can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“We have surgery tomorrow.” 

“Unfortunately, viruses don’t tend to check your schedule. You’re gonna have to pencil it in.” 

“I told you, it’s a migraine.” 

“Not with a fever like this,” he argues as he takes the thermometer and reads it. “Over 102. That’s it. You’re barred from surgery until we can bring it down.” 

“The Ringer’s will help,” he says, “and throw in an antipyretic. I’ll be fine in the morning.” 

“Yeah, you’ve been saying that. It doesn’t seem like denial is the best medicine.” 

“I’m not in denial; I’m walking by faith.” 

“Well, there better be only one set of footprints leading to the OR tomorrow, and I’m not carrying you. Stop fighting me on this. Please.” 

Disappointment is clear on his face, which is natural. Of course he wants to help introduce something he’d been so vital in inventing, something so revolutionary and important. However, there’s no way that the misery isn’t just as loud.

“Just—we’ll talk in the morning. I can’t think straight.” 

“That would be the fever popping your neurons like popcorn. You’re benched, Hawk. Can’t we do this the easy way for once?”

“I’d like to appeal to a higher court.” 

“Appeal denied. I don’t want to have to get the Colonels involved, but if you tie my hands, I’ll have no choice but to issue a bench warrant.”

“Teacher’s pet. If the pursuit of happiness is my protected right, then so is the pursuit of misery.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lady Justice weeps. Lie down and close your eyes. Fever reducer’s not going to help if you don’t chill out.”

“You get some sleep too, yeah? Staring at me’s not going to break the fever.”

BJ nods. Hawkeye knows him too well. 

“Only if you promise to actually wake me if you start to feel worse this time.”

“You have my word.” 

What wakes him, luckily, is not Hawkeye, but his alarm. He doesn’t even waste time putting on pants before crossing the room and sitting, once more, on the edge of Hawkeye’s bed. The alarm had woken him, too, and he’s rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he greets. “How are you feeling today?”

“Bit better than last night,” he admits, and BJ has to give it to him—he looks it, too. A little sleep had done a good deal for the pallor of his face, and he looks more focused and alert. 

“Yeah? That’s good. Your color’s better.” He hands over the thermometer. “You know the drill.” 

Much to his relief, he has to spend the next two minutes trying to keep him quiet, a sign he knows means he’s telling the truth about feeling at least a little better. The thermometer agrees. 

“100.7,” he announces. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

“Must’ve been a 24 hour thing.”

“Well, you’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s better than yesterday.” 

“I was getting worried I wasn’t going to be able to help you with the clamp in the OR.” 

BJ frowns. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to confirm that fear. You’re still feverish, Hawk. I know you feel better, but you were pretty sick last night. You should get some more rest.” 

“It’s one surgery, Beej. I can handle it.”

“Look, I know it’s disappointing, but don’t make me be your mother, here. Be reasonable.” 

“I’ve operated through worse.”

“Yeah, in emergencies. This isn’t an emergency.” 

As if to intentionally undermine him, that, yes, that, is when the sirens choose to sound. To his credit, Hawkeye masks most of his vindication. 

Most of it.

“I’m not saying a word,” Hawkeye rubs it in. 

“It’s more of a superior aura than an outright gloat.” 

“I’ve been taking field notes on Charles.” 

“It’s working. You’ve never been haughtier.” 

“Don’t say that; it’ll go straight to my head.” 

They continue to banter and bicker all the way to the OR, where Hawkeye introduces himself to the medical staff, apologizes for the migraine (which he does not disclose was actually a fever that he’s still running), and scrubs up. 

As Hawkeye is wont do do, he carries on. No matter how hot it gets in the OR, he doesn’t complain, even when he’s sweating so much that the nurses joke they should dedicate one of them just to sponging his face. 

Not even when he starts shivering again. Yes, BJ sees it, even if he doesn’t say a word. He can’t exactly see the tremors, but theres a certain posture a man takes when he’s fighting chills, a sort of hunch, pulling his arms too far in toward himself when the heat should be urging him to starfish out. He stays silent. 

Shortly after that, it’s obvious that the headache is returning. It must be bad, because he asks a nurse for aspirin. When he reaches out for it, he’s slow, deliberate. Is his body aching, too? 

Perhaps some of it is speculation, more even is worry, but BJ is pretty sure that if he’s reading the signs right, they’re all pointing to the fact that Hawkeye is miserable, getting more so by the hour. And, because he’s Hawkeye, he’s not going to say a word until they’re finished. 

That time comes about six hours later. The rush of wounded was small, but critical, and had required all hands on deck even though they managed to knock them all out after taking no more than three patients each. By the time Hawkeye finishes, BJ is just about ready to apply the microclamp to his last patient, and, well. Given how brave he’d been through all of this, it would be a shame to deny him the opportunity to demo this instrument for an extra 30 minutes just to put him to bed. He’s made it this far—what’s an extra half hour?

“What can I do?” Hawkeye asks, freshly gloved hands hovering over the man on the table. 

“You want to do the honors?” 

Hawkeye smiles under his mask. 

“Thought you’d never ask.” He applies the microclamp and BJ is happy to let him soak up the oohs and aahs from the medical staff. It doesn’t escape his notice, however, that when they begin asking questions, Hawkeye makes no move to answer them. Well, he thinks, that’s okay. He’s exhausted, but he’s earned this. BJ is happy to let him just be arm candy for a little while—

Until twenty minutes later, when things decidedly go south. His grip has been slackening and readjusting for the past few minutes, and he’s been shifting a lot on his feet. Though he’d been willing to write those things off as exhaustion and an eagerness to be finished, the wrongness of his assumptions hits him full force. 

“I’m not feeling so well,” Hawkeye says suddenly, his voice watery and weak. 

“We’re just going to be a few more minutes, promise.”

“Beej, I’m serious,” he implores. “I’m seeing spots.” 

Oh, shit. 

“Someone hold the clamp,” BJ demands, “and somebody else help him out of here.”  The nurses waste no time springing into action. Two of them stand on either side of Hawkeye, gently guiding toward the door by the elbows. Before BJ can even look up from his patient, there’s a crash, and startled shouts fill the room. When he can finally afford to take a glance toward them, he sees something that makes his heart race: Hawkeye is on the ground, eyes closed, immoble, with the nurses kneeling by his side, dragging him in an undignified manner across the floor because they can’t lift him themselves but they also can’t leave him near the worst of the foot traffic. 

“Check his temperature and blood pressure. He was feverish last night.” One retrieves a thermometer while the other presses her hand to his forehead and cheeks.

“He’s boiling,” she announces. 

“Damn it, Hawk. I knew this was too much. Get him to post-op and get him sponged until his temp is down. Give him fluids and get his sugar up.”

“He’s waking up,” the nurse crouched by his side exclaims. Hawkeye is moving a bit, slowly building control over his body. He sits up and reflexively clutches his temple. It’s either pain or vertigo, possibly both. 

“Dr. Pierce, can you hear me?”

“You’re shouting in my ear,” Hawkeye replies, and god, is that a relief. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “Gosh, how are you feeling? You fainted.”

He pauses.

“Really?”

“Why do you think you’re on the floor?” BJ snaps. He hates that he feels angry. Hawkeye couldn’t choose not to get sick, not to faint, and they’d both agreed that his fever was low enough this morning to operate through an emergency. 

He suspects that’s not the case anymore. 

The feeling is panic-rage, nothing more. He takes a breath before he replies. Though he’ll allow himself to chastise later, he won’t yell. 

“I won’t be much longer here. Do you think you could stand so we can get you off this floor?”

“With a little help,” he says. BJ can’t even glance up to watch the nurses help him to his feet and shuffle out of the OR.

“Doctor, are you sure you can finish this?” Jean asks. Apparently she’s the one who’d grabbed the clamp. BJ nods. 

“Of course. Keep holding just like that.” 

He sheds just the bloody scrubs before beelining straight for post-op to find Hawkeye. A nurse leads him to where he’s lying back in bed, eyes shut and huddled under a blanket. Though BJ doesn’t want to bother him if he’s finally getting some real rest, he’s too worried to do anything but sit at the foot of his bed and pat his feet. 

“You awake?”

Hawkeye cracks open his eyes. 

“I am now.”

“Sorry. How are you feeling?”

Hawkeye shrugs, which tells him more than whatever answer he’s about to give will.

“Sorry about fainting on you in OR. I really didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t,” BJ says. “I know that. What happened?”

“Temperature was up, and since I haven’t been drinking much the past two days, the dehydration didn’t help. Not sure if it was my BP dipping or my heart rate spiking, but fluids are helping.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Hey, boys,” the Colonel greets gruffly, clearly displeased with today’s happenings in his OR. “Dr. Pierce, how are you feeling?”

“Better. I’m sorry about all the trouble.”

“Nonsense. Just glad to see you back on your feet.” Is that what he’s calling this? He checks the bottle of Ringer’s and nods. “Do you think you’ll need another bottle before you two hit the road? I can get one started.”

“Hit the road?” BJ parrots. “Do you think that’s such a good idea? He’s still running a pretty good fever.”

“We’ll send you with plenty of antipyretics to keep him cool and comfortable through your ride, but our doctors are already on their way back. If you boys don’t leave soon, the 4077th is going to be without two of its brightest surgeons.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Hawkeye says, “but it will get us out of your hair.”

“Hawk, are you sure?”

“It’s just a few hours. I’ll have some aspirin and take a nap in the back, and we’ll be there before we know it. Don’t worry so much.”

“Do you have objections, Hunnicut?” 

The man is tall, broad, and intimidating in ways he might not be controlling but sure as hell is utilizing to his advantage. As much as he wants to argue, it doesn’t seem wise, especially if Hawkeye seems so confident that he’s feeling well enough to make the drive. And he has a point—BJ will do the driving, and Hawkeye can rest in the back. If they keep him on antipyretics, theoretically, he shouldn’t end up too much worse for wear. Still, he’s got a bad feeling. He’d prefer to wait until he’s at least over the worst of the flu before putting him in a Jeep and sending them back. 

But he never gets his way.

“None, sir. Again, we’re sorry about the trouble, and thanks for your hospitality.”

“Come again any time,” he says, and with that, Hawkeye sits up to begin the process of heading home. 

Another hour finds BJ in the driver’s seat of a fully loaded Jeep, Hawkeye lying in the back seat on fever reducers and pain meds. 

“I really don’t like this,” BJ says when they’re out of earshot of the Colonel. “Hawk, you really don’t look well, and I know you don’t feel good, either. Are you sure you can make this drive?”

“I’ll just rest back here,” he replies. “About as comfortable as an army cot.”

“Yeah, until we start moving. The bumps are going to be hell on your headache.” 

“They gave me some pretty good painkillers, and a dose for the road. I won’t feel a thing. Might even get in a little nap.”

“I doubt that.”

“Maybe if you sing to me?”

“Doubt that even more.”

“Fine. In any case, I’ll be fine. It’s just six hours, and I won’t lift a finger. Few hours of discomfort, then I can fall back into bed and sleep for a week.”

“You’ll have earned it.”

“Wait!” a voice calls, and when they look up, it’s Jean, offering up a bag and smiling. “I packed a few snacks for the road, just in case you get hungry. Do you need anything else before you go? Hawkeye?” 

“We’ll be fine,” he reassures her with a smile that does NOT reassure BJ. “Thank you for thinking of us. Very sweet.”

“Call in if you get into any trouble, and when you get back to your camp. I’ll be waiting up to hear from you.”

“We will,” BJ promises. “Thank you for your kindness, really. You’ve been great.”

She grins. 

“So long,” she calls as they shift the Jeep into gear, “and stay in touch!” 

With that, they’re on the road once more, heading back toward the 4077th with nothing but high hopes and a bad feeling in the pit of BJ’s stomach. 

An hour passes, then two, then three. What’s normally a stupid time filled with giddy laughter (and sometimes, way too often, some poor choices) is now just BJ and the road. It gives him plenty of time to get far too into his own thoughts, which turn pretty quickly to Hawkeye. Quiet, still Hawkeye, who looks a little paler, a little more flushed, a little more exhausted every time he looks back on him. Though he wants to give him space and rest, he can only bite his tongue for so long. After almost four hours of silence, he calls out. 

“How are you doing back there?”

At first, he gets no response. His heart rate feels like it doubles. 

“Hawk?” he calls. “Answer me, buddy.” 

“Fine,” he replies, but it’s tight. “Think I might need to redose on those meds.” 

BJ frowns. 

“The fever reducers or the painkillers?”

“Both.”

“You’re feeling worse?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” 

Oh, god. That’s it. That’s what he’s been waiting for, what he’s been scared of, why they shouldn’t have left the damn camp until he was over this, why they shouldn’t have let that asshole Colonel push them around—

Then, before he can even stop the Jeep to assess his state, it starts. A shot. 

He swerves. 

Right into another, two, five, a barrage. 

“Get down!” BJ shouts, but it’s too little too late. Before the next thought is even fully formed in his head, the next shot takes out the front tire, and the swerve he has to do to keep them from being literally goddamn killed sends them careening down a ditch, one door over another over another—