When I reach for my purse to pay for my part, Dr. Harrison waves it away.
"We're square. Tell King I said hello."
Dean nods, shaking the man's hand. "Will do. Thanks, Doc."
In the truck, Max dozes between us, his head lolling against my arm. The relief of having his tooth taken care of is overwhelming. One problem solved, a hundred more to go.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For arranging this."
Dean keeps his eyes on the road. "Don't thank me for doing what I should have been doing all along."
"You didn't know about him."
"Still." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "No kid should be in pain because their parent can't afford a dentist."
"I tried," I say, defensive again. "I was saving up, but everything costs so much. Rent, food, diapers..."
"I know." He glances at me briefly. "I'm blaming myself. And a system that leaves single parents with no safety net."
"We should get his prescription," I say, changing the subject. "And maybe some ice cream? The dentist said it would help."
"Yeah." Dean nods. "Good idea."
We stop at a pharmacy where Dean fills Max's prescription, then a small grocery store where he insists on buying not just ice cream but other soft foods—applesauce, yogurt, pudding, soup. He also grabs diapers, wipes, and juice boxes without being asked. I want to object, to insist I can provide for my son, but the truth is, I can't. Not right now.
By the time we return to Dean's house, it's nearly one o'clock. Max is more alert, asking for ice cream and showing off the sticker Dr. Harrison gave him for being brave.
"Ice cream for lunch?" Dean asks, looking to me for confirmation.
I nod. "Just this once, because he was very brave at the dentist."
Max beams, the gap where his infected tooth used to be visible when he smiles. Dean scoops chocolate ice cream into a bowl and sets it in front of Max, who digs in right away.
"I should head to the clubhouse soon," Dean says, checking his watch. "You two okay here?"
"We'll be fine," I assure him. "Max will probably nap this afternoon."
He hesitates, seeming reluctant to leave. "I don't know how long the meeting will be. But there's food in the fridge now, and the TV works if you want to watch something."
"We're not helpless," I say, softer than the words might sound. "Go to your meeting. We'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks. I'll try not to be late."
After he leaves, I help Max finish his ice cream, clean his face, and give him his antibiotic. The medication combined with the earlier sedation makes him drowsy, and he falls asleep on the couch, his head in my lap.
I stroke his hair, watching his peaceful face. For the first time in weeks, he's not in pain. He's safe, warm, fed. All because we found his father.
But what happens next? Dean has been surprisingly accommodating, but we can't stay here forever. He has his own life: a dangerous one, from what I can tell. The Savage Riders aren't just a motorcycle club. They're an outlaw MC with enemies and illegal activities, no matter what Dean says about "security work."
Is this really a better environment for Max than struggling on our own? At least with me, he's not exposed to violence and criminal activity. But with me, he was sleeping in a car with an untreated tooth infection.
There are no perfect choices here, only the best of bad options.
Max stirs in his sleep, one hand clutching my shirt. His trust in me is absolute, unquestioning. He believes I'll always protect him, always make the right decisions for his welfare.
I have to live up to that trust, whatever it takes.
I shift him onto a cushion and stand, needing to move, to do something productive. Dean's house is clean but impersonal. Few decorations, no family photos except the one with his military buddy, minimal furniture. It reminds me of a hotel room: a place to sleep, not a home.
