The biker gently accepted his fingers.
"Tomorrow sounds good."
I looked at the two of them.
And for the first time, I wondered whether Wade's kindness came from knowing exactly what this kind of fear felt like.
The hospital courtyard became my refuge during the following months.
It was a small enclosed garden between two wings of the building, with benches, a few young trees, and a narrow path bordered by flowers. Families went there to make difficult phone calls, drink coffee, or experience a few minutes of ordinary weather after hours beneath fluorescent lights.
Whenever Eli was stable and another trusted adult could remain with him, I sometimes stepped outside for ten minutes.
I would sit beneath a tree and try to remember what life felt like beyond the hospital.
Cars passed along the road.
People walked dogs.
Students carried backpacks.
The world continued moving as though nothing extraordinary were happening.
I resented that sometimes.
I would watch someone laughing into a phone and think how unfair it was that they could be so carefree while my child was fighting for his health.
Then I would feel guilty.
Suffering had made me capable of thoughts I wasn't proud of.
One afternoon, I saw Wade sitting alone on a courtyard bench.
He didn't notice me.
His leather vest rested beside him, and he was holding something small in his right hand.
At first, I thought it was a coin.
Then sunlight caught the object.
It was a little red toy car.
He rolled it slowly across his palm.
Stopped it.
Then rolled it back.
His expression was so sad that I stopped walking.
For a moment, I considered approaching him.
But something about the way he held that tiny car felt private.
He wasn't simply passing the time.
He was remembering something.
I quietly turned away.
When he arrived in Eli's room the following morning, the red car wasn't in his bag.
I never mentioned seeing it.
Not until much later.
Summer brought several difficult changes to our lives outside the hospital.
My employer had been patient with my absences, but eventually we needed to discuss what kind of work schedule was possible. I had exhausted much of my available leave, and the combination of reduced income and ongoing expenses had begun to overwhelm me.
Bills accumulated.
The refrigerator at home needed repairs.
My car developed a problem that I couldn't afford to address immediately.
Even simple decisions became complicated.
I would stand in a grocery store looking at two ordinary items and calculate whether buying both meant delaying something else.