"Yes!" Sanders punches the air. "Dad, can we get hot dogs after? The real New York ones?"
"You just had a sandwich," Lane points out.
"That was like five minutes ago, Mom."
Luke's soft laughter joins Sanders's protest, and the kids launch into an intense debate about New York food versus home food. They are already planning a TikTok video of talking to a street vendor.
I watch Lane from across the room. Her shoulders have relaxed slightly, but her fingers keep tracing the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding it like she does.
What I can't read is what she's thinking about that kiss.
The dialysis clinichas a flickering light in the corner and is a little dingier than I would have expected for New York City. Then I remember how many people must come through here on a daily basis. It's probably about ten times what we see in Wilmington.
Most of the patients here are adults. I look around and see older men and women in recliners lined up against the walls, IV poles beside them, machines thrumming steadily at their sides.
Luke sticks out like a sore thumb.
The rhythmic hum of the pumps and the steady beeping of monitors are sounds I’ve long since absorbed into the background, but I wonder how they strike Sanders. Does he find them odd or threatening, or merely a regular part of his friend's life a few times a week?
My son sits beside Luke's recliner, his whole body animated as they scroll through Luke's phone. "Dude, we're up to two million views now! People are making duets with our videos."
Luke's pale face brightens. The dialysis catheter in his arm seems so large against his thin frame, but he barely seems to notice it. "Actually? Show me!"
I lean forward in my chair between them, caught in their bubble of excitement. Sanders tilts his phone so Luke can see, both their heads close together, matching grins spreading across their faces.
"This lady in Florida made cookies that look like kidneys," Sanders points at the screen. "She says her son had a transplant ten years ago."
"That's sick," Luke laughs. "In the good way, I mean."
"People keep asking if we're going to the Christmas market tomorrow," Sanders continues, scrolling further. "Should we? I bet they have cool stuff there. We should go. Right, Dad?"
Pride swells in my chest, heavy and pure. My son, who has everything, is sitting here beside a boy who has so little, treating him like a brother. With no awareness of the differences in their circumstances, just two kids united by friendship and a cause. "Absolutely. Get the details and I'll talk to your mom."
A nurse passes by, adjusting something on Luke's machine. "Everything good over here, young man?"
"It's all drippy," Luke responds, and Sanders bursts into laughter at the slang.
"Let me translate for you. We're good. Thank you."
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the caller ID.
Nate Peck.
A sharp chill cuts straight through me. Peck is covering my hip revision on Thorson. He wouldn’t call unless?—
"I'll be right back, guys." I stand, ruffling Sanders'hair as I pass.
In the hallway, I answer quickly. "What's going on, Peck? Everything go okay with Thorson?"
His voice comes through tightly, strained. I can hear the operating room sounds in the background, the beeps of monitors, the murmur of the surgical team. "It's bad, Woody. Massive acetabular bone loss, discontinuity. I can't stabilize it."
My pulse jumps. Thorson's case was always going to be challenging. The bone quality on his scans had looked concerning.
"You've got to close," I say, cutting through Peck's panic. "Don't force it. Close, stabilize. I'll fly in tonight and finish it tomorrow."
"You're sure?" The relief in his voice is palpable.
"I'm sure." My tone leaves no room for doubt. We both know what this means.
