The people who understood that sometimes the most important part of their work wasn't a machine or a medication.
Sometimes it was making sure a terrified parent didn't feel abandoned.
That night, I stayed until nearly two in the morning.
When I finally returned home, I sat in the garage without turning on the lights.
For the first time in months, I felt the old fear returning.
The urge to disappear.
The urge to protect myself by loving less.
I imagined Tucker's little bed empty.
I imagined Angie standing alone in the hospital corridor.
And I imagined another tiny coffin.
My breathing became shallow.
I stood suddenly and began walking across the garage.
I told myself I needed air.
Then I told myself I needed a ride.
Maybe if I started the motorcycle and kept moving, I wouldn't have to think.
I reached for my helmet.
But before I could put it on, my phone rang.
Ron.
I stared at the screen.
Then I answered.
“Yeah?”
He didn't bother with a greeting.
“You thinking about running?”
I closed my eyes.
“How do you always know?”
“Because I've watched you do it before.”
I leaned against the workbench.
Ron continued.
“I heard Tucker's back in the hospital.”
“Yeah.”
“How bad?”
“They're still evaluating.”
He was quiet.
Then he asked, “You scared?”
I laughed bitterly.
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
“It means you care.”
I looked toward the motorcycle.
Ron continued.
“But don't confuse being scared with having a reason to disappear.”
I swallowed.
“I don't know if I can go through this again.”
His voice softened.
“Brother, you already know you can't control how this ends.”
I closed my eyes.
He continued.
“But remember what the kid actually hired us for.”
I looked toward the floor.
Seven dollars and forty cents.
A tiny hand reaching across a diner table.
Are you on my team?
Ron waited.
Finally, I answered.
“To help him.”
“Exactly.”
He paused.
“Not to guarantee the outcome. Not to become superheroes. To help.”
I sat down.
Ron continued.
“And sometimes helping means sitting in a hospital hallway when you feel like your heart's going to break.”
My eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Then don't make Tucker pay for what happened to Sarah.”
The words hurt.
I almost became angry.
Then I realized he was right.
Tucker had never asked me to replace Sarah.
He had never asked me to forget her.
He had simply asked me to stay.
I looked toward the little photograph on the garage shelf.
Then I whispered, “I'm not going anywhere.”