Back in New Hampshire, the Ethan Jones team had gone into action immediately, working with meticulous precision. They had quickly organized the entire parking space, coordinating the arrival of the five major tour buses. The buses were parked strategically in a park area that the state government had generously lent them, complete with security and police members already patrolling the perimeter. Every detail had been considered — from crowd control to ensuring emergency access, nothing was left to chance.
By mid-Afternoon, the team had begun receiving additional security and assistants from the state, especially as news of Ethan's arrival and the economic impact of his stay started spreading. The numbers were staggering: hosting a concert of Ethan's scale generated millions for each state he visited. Hotels were fully booked, restaurants overflowed, local attractions saw spikes in visitors — the economic boost was undeniable. Even though the tour had been gradually winding down, and the crowds had been more manageable compared to earlier, the excitement in New Hampshire was palpable. The state had lent the team the park space not just for logistics but because they knew of the effect Ethan's presence had on tourism and local commerce.
Outside, tents and temporary setups were already visible, marking the area for local fans and those who had been following the tour from state to state. The impact of Ethan's stay could be felt everywhere — the energy, the crowds, the buzz — and participation from the local police force was a given. Jessica had taken it upon herself to ensure that the local government was fully on board. She had contacted each state mayor, the city council, local police departments, and made sure space and tickets were allocated for the heads of those organizations. Politicians had become regular fixtures at Ethan's shows — major senators, governors, especially those with young daughters for whom an Ethan Jones ticket was a perfect way to impress or bond with their kids.
New Hampshire was no different. Key state figures had already called, confirming they would attend the show. The tour's biggest draw, however, had been in Washington, D.C., where Vice President Kamala Harris had attended with her husband and their children. Dough her husband, who was an entertainment lawyer, had personally giving Ethan his ID card as a mark of recognition and courtesy.
But for the team, all of that — the politicians, the economic impact, the headlines — was secondary. Inside the second bus on the line, which had been carefully covered for privacy, serious matters were underway. Shortly after Ethan's firm decision to continue the tour, Dough had arrived with Dr. Steven Zeitels. In the back of the bus, away from prying eyes, they were deeply immersed in treatment, focused solely on ensuring Ethan could perform without compromising his health.
"I'm going to insert a tiny scope through your nose so we can examine your vocal folds while you phonate.Try to hold a note at a higher pitch, and now at a lower pitch. Good. Now speak normally. Do you feel any strain or catch in your throat?"
Ethan sat there quietly, focused, following each instruction to the letter. His posture was tense but composed, hands resting lightly on his knees as Dr. Steven Zeitels worked with precision. Bill and Jessica were the only two others in the room, standing slightly behind and to the side, giving Ethan the space he needed while still monitoring every reaction. Dough had remained outside with Marcus, Devon, and Richard, leaving the young man to focus without distractions. The rest of the team had dispersed to keep the tour machinery running: Rebecca and her assistants were out coordinating fan engagement, taking photos, posting updates, and ensuring the buzz for tomorrow's concert didn't fade. They were managing the super fans — those with massive followings, dedicated fan pages, and the ability to amplify Ethan's every move across social media.
Mark had gone ahead to the venue to oversee logistics and make sure every technical detail was in place. The band was already running sound checks, testing every instrument, every mic, every speaker placement. Vivienne, the creative director, had followed to ensure her vision for stage visuals, lighting, and Ethan's wardrobe would translate perfectly onto the massive venue stage. Wisdom, meanwhile, had taken inspiration from the terrain around the stadium, sketched a quick idea for Ethan's outfit, snapped the business card for reference, and zoomed off to continue his preparations.
Back in the bus, Bill and Jessica stayed close to Ethan and the doctor, observing the procedure intently.
"See how this fold isn't vibrating cleanly? There's extra tissue, it's slightly swollen," Dr. Zeitels explained, pointing to the monitor displaying Ethan's vocal folds. "That points to either a benign lesion — nodule, polyp — or inflammation from overuse. We'll need to review your history: tour schedule, rehearsal hours, vocal rest. If you've been pushing without proper recovery, it's common to see this."
Bill's expression hardened, concern etching across his face. He immediately pulled out his phone and started typing a message to Dough. "I'm coming with him," he muttered under his breath. "Go get Ethan's full schedule from the other bus." He looked back at Dr. Zeitels, nodding, "It's coming." The doctor waved a hand casually, a subtle "okay, okay" gesture, indicating he was ready to proceed once the information arrived.
Bill's gaze then shifted to Ethan. The young man, hooked up with monitors, IVs, and the scope in place, glowed faintly under the soft medical lights. Despite the calm exterior, the strain of months on tour, late-night performances, and relentless rehearsals was visible in the tension around his shoulders, the slight tightness in his jaw. Bill grimaced and shook his head subtly, the weight of the situation pressing down as he realized just how much Ethan had been pushing his voice to the limit.
Jessica, frowning as she pressed her fingers against her temple, moved closer to Bill. She tapped him lightly, a little insistently this time. "Bill… Bill," she whispered, her voice urgent.
Bill, immersed in the procedure, instinctively turned his face away from the patient, glancing at her.
"Have you seen the news?" Jessica asked, her tone tight, serious, and just edged with panic. She held up her phone, the screen angled so he could see it.
Bill, now alert, reached for the device. His eyes scanned the headlines, widening as he read further. Multiple tabs had been opened automatically, and the first one made his stomach tighten.
"Changpeng Zhao… Binance CEO… massive regulatory penalties and investigation over 2022," he muttered, scrolling quickly. Each headline seemed worse than the last, detailing scandals, legal suits, and controversies that had rocked the crypto world. He scrolled down, seeing another article catch his attention:
"NFTs: Neymar Jr., soccer superstar, buys $1 million worth of digital collectibles—Is this the future of crypto or just another avenue for fraud?"
Bill's eyes darted across the page, scanning rapidly. His jaw tightened as he read the dizzying stream of news, his mind racing to consider the possible ripple effects. Fortunately, none of the articles mentioned Ethan's name. Relief washed over him—he would make sure it stayed that way.
"Give me a second," he muttered like a seasoned agent, handing the phone back to Jessica. "I'm coming. Let me make some calls, figure out what's happening. In the meantime, call Vivienne—tell her to remove all the brand merch from Binance immediately."
Jessica, still tapping his arm lightly to get his attention, watched as Bill nodded in acknowledgment. She leaned toward him, trying to shush him subtly, pointing toward the doctor with a small, exasperated gesture.
Bill's attention shifted briefly, giving a small smile. The doctor, busy with Ethan but ever aware, chuckled softly. "Oo, don't mind me. Patient confidentiality, you know—it isn't my discretion why you all called me in the first place."
Bill gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "We know, sir. We just—"
"No issue, no issue," the doctor interrupted, still amused. "It even reminds me of the time with John Mayer…" He launched into a wild, animated story about John Mayer's antics, laughing heartily as he recounted the memory. Bill couldn't help but chuckle along, the tension breaking for a moment.
But business couldn't wait. Bill quickly regained his focus and frowned, turning sharply toward Jessica. "Just call Vivienne first. Tell her to remove all the merch from Binance. I'm coming—let me figure out what's happening."
Jessica started to speak. "Wait—"
"I'm coming, I'm coming. Stay here with Ethan," Bill cut her off firmly, already moving toward the door.
Jessica exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop in defeat. "What is this now?" she muttered under her breath. Her eyes flicked back to Ethan, who was trying to talk, mouth occupied with instruments, clearly frustrated that he couldn't communicate properly.
She watched him shift slightly, looking toward the door where Bill had just left, his eyes searching, asking silently, What's wrong?
Jessica shook her head gently, repeating under her breath, almost as if convincing herself: "It's nothing… it's nothing…"
The weight of the moment pressed down on her. The Lord knew they didn't need any more issues right now.
...
"So, I've done the necessary tests. For now, I'm going to classify this as vocal‑fold inflammation with early-stage lesion changes," Dr. Zeitels said, his voice calm but precise. "I'll recommend voice rest, speech therapy, and perhaps a minor microsurgical intervention if it doesn't resolve. No screaming, limited high‑force belting, heavy voice—days off. If you ignore it, the tissue can scar, and you could lose range or clarity."
Ethan, still perched awkwardly on the examination chair, wiped at the small drool that had escaped during the procedure—it had felt almost like a dentist appointment, uncomfortable but manageable. His fingers trembled slightly as he brushed it away, a faint sheen of worry glinting in his eyes.
He turned slowly toward Jessica. She met his gaze with concern, her brow furrowed slightly. "How bad is it, really, doctor?" she asked, her voice steady but tinged with unease.
Dr. Zeitels leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if weighing his words. "Well…" he began, his tone almost casual, though the meaning carried weight. "It can get… bad. Bad enough that, in the worst-case scenario, a patient especially a singer could even lose their voice permanently. Surgery might not help. But Ethan's situation is still mild. Right now, what he needs most is rest. Lots of rest. Limit the high notes, the belting, even the heavy talking. Medications can help, and after a period of recovery—say, three to four months—I can recheck him. By then, if he follows the plan, it should be okay."
Ethan's eyes widened, and a small gasp escaped him. "Three months?"
The doctor's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Oh… is that too long? Okay, we can do the surgery now. It's still early-stage, very safe. With proper care, a month or so of recovery should have you back to normal."
Ethan's jaw dropped again. "A month… that's still too long." His voice was tight, almost desperate.
Dr. Zeitels sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seriously, this was caused by over‑singing. Right now, it might not seem too serious—your speaking voice is fine—but if you keep pushing it, just continuous talking especially singing it will worsen. And then… even surgery might not save it."
Ethan slid down from the chair, his shoulders slumping. The weight of the news settled heavily on him. Jessica, sensing the awkward silence, stepped forward gently. "Thank you, Dr. Zeitels. We really appreciate you coming out here. You can send the bill to the number which contacted you," she said, her tone polite but firm. "We've also booked a hotel for you, and a flight back to Boston tomorrow."
She moved toward the door, calling softly, "Dough, please help Dr. Zeitels to his room."
Jessica returned to where Ethan was sitting, gazing out the window of the tour bus. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the strain etched into his features. She knelt slightly beside him, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
"Ethan… I know you really want to continue the shows," she said softly, her thumb brushing lightly over his sleeve, "but I think this time… it's best if we—"
Before she could finish, the door to the bus burst open. Bill strode in, phone pressed to his ear, completely oblivious to the quiet, somber mood. His usually jovial demeanor was replaced by a sharp intensity.
"We might have some serious issues on our hands," he said, his voice cutting through the space like a knife.