“Are you mad?”
I shook my head immediately.
“No, buddy. Not at you.”
“Then why are your eyes wet?”
Behind me, somebody quietly moved a coffee cup.
I swallowed.
“Sometimes big guys cry too.”
The boy considered that.
Then he nodded as though I had explained something perfectly reasonable.
“My mommy cries in the kitchen when she thinks I'm sleeping.”
The words nearly broke me.
I looked beyond him.
Near the diner entrance stood a woman in her early thirties, wearing a faded blue cardigan and jeans. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and one hand was pressed against her mouth. Tears ran down her cheeks as she watched us.
I knew immediately that she was his mother.
She looked exhausted.
Not the kind of exhaustion that comes from missing one night of sleep.
The kind that settles into a person's face after months of hospital corridors, medical appointments, unanswered questions, and pretending to be strong for somebody smaller than yourself.
I turned back to the boy.
“What's your name, son?”
“Tucker.”
“Well, Tucker, I'm glad you came over.”
He looked hopeful.
“Does that mean you'll do it?”
I took a breath.
“Can I ask you something first?”
He nodded.
“What does your cancer look like?”
His face brightened slightly.
He reached into his jacket.
For a moment, he struggled with something caught in the lining.
Then he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He opened it carefully and placed it on the table.
The drawing showed an enormous black monster with red eyes, sharp crooked teeth, and arms that looked like tree branches. Inside its stomach was a tiny stick figure.
The figure had no hair.
It wore blue pants.
Tucker pointed toward it.
“That's me.”
I stared at the picture.
He touched the monster's teeth.
“This is the cancer.”
Ron made a low sound behind me.
I didn't turn around.
Tucker continued.
“Sometimes it makes me throw up. Sometimes I get really tired. And sometimes Mommy says I need another treatment because the monster's still there.”
He looked at me.
“So I thought maybe you could punch it.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
When I opened them, I knew I couldn't lie to him.
I couldn't tell him that five bikers could cure cancer.
I couldn't promise that everything would turn out all right.
I'd made promises like that once.
I had promised Sarah that the next treatment might be the last.
I had promised her we'd go fishing when she felt better.
I had promised her I'd be there when she woke up.