Medical equipment did not frighten him.
He hated being processed.
Name.
Date of birth.
Insurance.
Symptoms.
Pain scale.
Medication list.
Every answer converted him into fields on a screen.
At the oncology center, Caleb wore jeans, boots, a black T-shirt, and his leather riding vest.
Mara told him the vest was ridiculous.
He wore it anyway.
“Armor?”
she asked.
“Pockets.”
“You have pockets in jeans.”
“Different pockets.”
Mara kissed his cheek.
“Armor.”
Caleb sat in the treatment chair.
The nurse introduced herself.
Her name was Cynthia.
Mid-fifties.
Funny.
Unimpressed by his size.
When he asked whether he could keep the vest on, she said:
“If you want me cutting through it in an emergency.”
Caleb removed it instantly.
Mara laughed.
“Traitor.”
Cynthia prepared the IV.
Caleb looked toward the window.
Cars moved through the parking lot.
People carried groceries.
A delivery truck stopped.
Ordinary life continued with offensive confidence.
Noah was at school.
They had told his teacher enough to explain possible changes at home.
Caleb insisted he attend class.
No sitting beside treatment chairs.
No treating childhood like a waiting room.
Mara sat beside him.
“Scared?”
Caleb nodded.
She reached for his hand.
The medication began flowing.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No thunder.
No immediate collapse.
Caleb felt almost cheated.
Cancer had rearranged his entire life.
Treatment looked like clear liquid moving through plastic tubing.
Cynthia checked on him.
“You okay?”
“I expected something more cinematic.”
“You want explosions?”
“No.”
“Then enjoy boring medicine.”
Caleb smiled.
Boring medicine.
He remembered the phrase.
Three hours later, he felt exhausted.
By evening, nausea arrived.
The next morning, everything tasted metallic.
By Thursday, exhaustion settled inside his bones.
Noah watched him carefully.
Too carefully.
Caleb noticed.
Whenever Caleb stood, Noah looked up.
Whenever he coughed, Noah stopped what he was doing.
Whenever Caleb slept on the couch, Noah checked whether his chest moved.
The third time Caleb caught him doing it, he pulled the boy closer.
“I'm sleeping, not practicing.”
Noah looked embarrassed.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Caleb lifted him onto the couch.
“What are you checking?”
“Nothing.”
“Noah.”
The boy whispered:
“If you're breathing.”
Caleb’s heart tightened.
He put Noah’s hand against his chest.
“You feel that?”
Heartbeat.
Noah nodded.
“That's doing its job.”
“What if it stops?”
“Then your mother finally gets the garage.”
From the kitchen, Mara shouted:
“Not funny.”
Caleb smiled.
Noah did not.
Caleb became serious.
“You don't have to watch me every second.”
“What if something happens?”
“Something will happen.”
Noah’s eyes widened.
Caleb continued quickly.
“Not that.”
“I mean life.”
“You’ll go to school.”
“I’ll get treatment.”
“Mom will burn dinner.”
“I heard that,” Mara called.
“Motorcycles will break.”
“You’ll lose teeth.”
“Hopefully not me.”