"Of course there was. Hell, there's even a video of you explaining what kidney failure is. Don't play dumb with me, Woody."
"You need to turn it down. Yes, I brought him to the hospital for a few hours on Saturday. Sanders just met him when I had an emergency surgery. They were messing around on the phone as far as I knew. It wasn't until this morning that I found out they made these videos. And, yes, I did make my own for him at his request this morning. Jesus. You act like I gave him a weapon and told him to play Russian Roulette."
"Woody, our son, is out there for the world to see!" My voice rises despite my effort to control it. The copy machine hums through the thin wall, a steady counterpoint to my racing heartbeat. "We are supposed to protect him."
"That's—" He falls silent, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair, the way he always does when blindsided. “Again, Lane, kids make videos all the time. I didn’t know this one would take off."
The admission fuels something hot and fierce in my chest. "Of course you didn't. Because you weren't paying attention. Again."
"That's not fair. Mrs. Henderson was crashing?—"
"Do you have any idea what this means?" I cut him off, the old resentment rising like bile. "Our son's face, his name, his school, it's all out there now. For anyone to see."
The silence stretches between us, taut with unsaid words.
His silence stretches one beat too long, and that single moment tells me everything I need to know. Once again, we’re on different planets.
FOUR
Woody
The heater chugs against the evening chill, sending warm air across my knuckles as I grip the steering wheel. I tap my thumb against the leather, watching the entrance to the parking lot while keeping tabs on Sanders through the rearview mirror.
"Dad! Look at this one!" Sanders leans forward, shoving my phone between the front seats. The screen's glow illuminates his face. "Someone in California donated five hundred dollars!"
A jittery current zips through me, the same restless buzz that’s been with me all day as this has unfolded.. I'm proud and super impressed that he's created this, but also the dread about whether this is too big to manage creeps up, contradicting the joy. "That's... that's amazing, Bud."
"Luke's mom is gonna freak out." He scrolls through comments, legs bouncing against the seat. "She will be able to afford missing work now so that Luke can get the transplant."
I nod, forcing enthusiasm I don't entirely feel. How did this happen? Two days ago, Luke was just a kid Sandersmet at the hospital, two goofy nine-year-olds. Now, he's the center of this whirlwind that's spinning faster than any of us can keep up with.
I watch people come and go from the Target as we sit in the parking lot.
Lane's SUV pulls in three spaces down, precise as always. Even from here, I can read the tension in how she exits her car. Her shoulders are squared, movements efficient. No wasted motion.
"Mom's here," I say, unnecessarily, because he's already spotted her.
Sanders is already unbuckling, reluctantly handing the phone over. I can see how this can be addictive. He loves watching the likes and comments rack up in real time.
"Finally! She hasn't seen the donation counter yet!"
Thank God. Before I can stop him, he's out the door, backpack bouncing against his spine as he sprints across the asphalt.
"Mom! You have to see how many people love Luke!"
Lane catches him in a hug, her face softening the way it only does for him. She says something I can't hear, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes when they lock onto mine over Sanders' head.
I know that look. It's the same one she gave me when I missed his kindergarten graduation because of an emergency spinal fusion. When I showed up forty minutes late to his seventh birthday with the wrong cake.
My chest tightens. I should've seen this coming. Should've thought about the implications before I agreed to help him seize the momentum this morning. But I'd been caught up in his enthusiasm, his pure desire to help. The best parts of Lane live in him, and I was caught in the excitement of it all.
Sanders chatters, waving his hands wildly, while Lanenods, directs him to her car. When she shuts the door, she stands still for a moment, back to me, gathering herself.
I step out of my car, the cold air hitting my face. Better to face this head-on.
Lane turns, and even in the bright sun of the day, I can see the storm brewing.
She marches toward me, her smile after greeting our son long gone.
