I swallow hard, the sound of my own pulse thundering in my ears. My throat tightens with a tangle of emotions I can't sort through. All at once, I have fierce pride in my son's compassion and terror at his vulnerability.
"Oh my God," I whisper, fingers pressed against my lips. "He really did it."
"Your son is really something else." Hannah's face glows blue in the light of her screen as her thumbs swipe up, up, up through an endless river of comments. "I've never seen anything blow up this fast in our town."
A strange heaviness settles in my lungs. Pride and panic tangle together, making it hard to breathe.
"Look at these comments!" Hannah turns her phone toward me, her enthusiasm oblivious to my inner turmoil. "This one says, 'That little boy made me cry into my coffee this morning.' And this lady made a stitch video, adding her own donation."
The office fades around me as Hannah scrolls through dozens, hundreds of reactions. People I've never met, crying over my son. Strangers making their own videos, pledging money, sharing his face.
"Oh my God, look at this one!" Kayla squeals, bouncing in her seat. "Children's Miracle Network just commented! They want to boost the fundraiser."
My fingers go numb against the desk edge. "What?"
"And someone's tagging Duke Children's Hospital. The actual hospital!" She leans closer, hervoice dropping to an excited whisper. "Lane, this is big. Not just local-viral."
The room tilts slightly. On the screen, hashtags multiply like wildfire: #SaveChristmas #GetLuke2Duke #ItsLukeTurnersTurn. Sanders' face appears again and again in duets, reactions, and shares.
Sanders Beamer, nine years old, local hero.
The caption stares back at me, and for a moment, I don't recognize my own child. The Sanders I tucked in on Friday night has transformed overnight into someone public, someone who belongs partly to the world now.
"He's got such a good heart," Hannah sighs. "You must be so proud."
I am. The emotion swells in my chest, threatening to crack me open. He's everything I've tried to raise him to be—compassionate, brave, the kind of person who sees a problem and moves to fix it instead of looking away.
But beneath that pride lurks something darker. Strangers know my son's name now. His face. Where he lives. The school emblem is visible on his hoodie in that first video. My fingers curl reflexively, the mother-bear instinct rising fierce and sudden.
My phone vibrates on the desk, jarring me from the spiral. Woody's name flashes on the screen, and suddenly the office feels too small, the air too thick. I silence it, needing privacy to talk to him.
"I need a minute." The words come out strained as I push back my chair. "Client call."
Hannah nods absently, already captivated by her phone, and walks out, her face buried.
I shut my office door with a sharp click and lean against my desk, my phone clutched in my sweating palm. My reflection in the half-drawn blinds looks pale, wild-eyed. Sanders' face floats in my mind. He's blissfullyearnest, hopeful, completely unaware of the hurricane he's unleashed.
I open my call log and click on the most recent. Woody Beamer in red. I press call and raise the phone to my ear, my hand shaking slightly.
It rings once. Twice. Then?—
"Hey. Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all morning."
His voice sounds casual, relaxed. Like it's any other morning. Like, our son isn't suddenly internet famous while I'm learning about it from the office receptionist.
"You want to tell me why our son is trending on TikTok?" The words come out sharper than I intend, slicing through the pretense of civility we normally maintain.
Silence stretches between us. "Lane, I was just as surprised as you. I just found out this morning when he woke me up to show me what he'd done."
His nonchalant, what-are-we-going-to-do reaction lands like a stone in my gut. How did our nine-year-old create a viral sensation without his father knowing? What the hell kind of supervision does he have at his father's house?
"Oh my god." I push off the desk and pace the three steps my tiny office allows. "You left him alone long enough to make a viral video about another child's kidney transplant, and you didn't even notice?"
"I didn't—that's not—" He stumbles over his words, a rarity for Woody, whose surgical precision usually extends to his speech. "Lane, slow down. I don't micromanage his every living second. He's nine, not three. And he's more adept at the internet than me. He probably makes these things in his sleep."
"Who is this kid?" Each word emergesclipped, precise. "He was in the hospital, so you brought him there? I thought you were off?"
"There was an emergency."
