“No, buddy. It isn't.”
He rubbed one eye.
“I wanted to see all the bikes.”
I thought for a moment.
Then I asked, “Can I tell you something about motorcycle clubs?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes we plan rides for months, and then the weather gets terrible. Rain, wind, lightning. Stuff nobody wants to ride through.”
Tucker listened.
“So what do you do?”
“We change the plan.”
He frowned.
“That's boring.”
I laughed.
“Sometimes. But staying safe means you get to ride another day.”
He considered that.
“Can you change my plan?”
I looked at him.
“Your doctors are working on the treatment plan. We can change the motorcycle plan.”
His eyes brightened slightly.
“How?”
“We'll figure something out.”
He studied me.
Then he held up the toy motorcycle.
“Promise?”
I took a breath.
I remembered the promises I'd made Sarah.
Then I answered carefully.
“I promise we'll keep trying to make the fun parts happen when you're feeling well enough.”
Tucker considered that.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
He placed the motorcycle beside his pillow.
A few minutes later, he asked whether I could stay until he fell asleep.
I said yes.
As he drifted off, Angie sat near the window.
She looked exhausted.
The hospital had admitted Tucker for monitoring and treatment, and the doctors were assessing whether the fever was connected with an infection.
She had barely slept.
I looked toward her.
“Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Not really.”
I stood.
“I'm going to get you something.”
She started protesting.
I raised one hand.
“Not asking permission to bring you a sandwich.”
She smiled faintly.
When I returned, she was sitting beside Tucker's bed, holding his hand.
I placed the food on the table.
She looked up.
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
Then I sat across from her.
For a while, we listened to the quiet sounds of the hospital.
Finally, Angie whispered, “What if he never gets better?”
I looked at her.
Her eyes filled.
“I try not to think about it.”
I waited.
She continued.
“Everybody tells me to stay positive. They say kids are strong. They say miracles happen.”
I looked down.
She wiped her cheek.
“But what if his doctors can't stop it?”
The question settled between us.
I knew what she wanted.
She wanted somebody to tell her that Tucker would survive.
That the treatments would work.
That all the fear would eventually turn into a story she could tell with relief.
I wanted to say those things too.
But I had spent years learning how much damage false certainty could do.