Sanders chatters from the backseat, filling the silence with TikTok updates and questions about whether Luke will bring snacks. His voice is a buffer, but it doesn’t erase the awareness pressing in on me. The way Woody shifts lanes, thigh brushing against the console. The rise and fall of his chest when he exhales.
This is going to be a long ride.
EIGHTEEN
Woody
“Mom, did you bring my lucky sweatshirt? The one with the reindeer?” Sanders’s voice cuts through my thoughts as we step inside.
Lane shifts, reaching into her bag. “Right here, honey. Are you cold?”
“It’s for Luke. I told him he could borrow it. He gets cold during dialysis sometimes. Plus, it’ll look drippy in our reel today.”
Lane hands it over with a small smile. “That’s really thoughtful, Bud.”
I watch the two of them, the easy rhythm of mother and son, and the familiar tug lately twists in my chest.
“Whoa, this place is huge!” Sanders’s head tips back, eyes wide as he takes in the soaring atrium. Glass ceilings, polished floors, the clear, crisp air of the hospital.
I place a hand on Sanders’s shoulder to steady him as he stares up at the atrium. “This is one of the best hospitals in the country, right in our backyard.”
He blinks. “Huh? This is in our backyard?”
“Figure of speech, Son. I meant it is close enough that we can drive here pretty easily. People come from all over the country to come here.”
“Oh.” He shrugs, distracted again by the glass ceiling above.
Lane walks a few paces ahead, her posture straight, her steps deliberate. Not fast, not slow, just clearly not as a unit. The space between us is wider than it was just a few days ago. We managed to find an ease we hadn’t known in years, but that's gone now.
A woman with silver-streaked hair and a massive Santa pin on her green sweater approaches with a clipboard clutched to her chest.
“You must be the Beamer family,” she chirps, flashing a professional smile that crinkles her eyes. “And you must be the famous Sanders Beamer.”
My chest tightens. The Beamer family. Lane doesn’t flinch, though, or correct her. She lets it hang there, like it’s easier to nod along than explain.
“That’s us,” she says smoothly.
My jaw locks. I swallow the taste of it down.
"I'm Janice, the volunteer coordinator." She gestures down the hallway. "Let me walk you through today's schedule as we walk to meet with Gill Cleaver from PR to discuss the filming parameters."
Sanders perks up. "Are we going to be on TV again?"
"You're quite the celebrity already! Yes, we will be filming for a national awareness campaign for organ donation." Janice winks at him and then looks at both Lane and me. "After meeting with Mr. Cleaver, you'll join the Turner family in the dialysis clinic. Mr. Cleaver will have more specific information about when and where they want tointerview you."
Lane nods along, efficient and detached. I force a polite smile.
"Sounds good." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Perfect! Let's get you settled in our waiting area."
We follow her to a small alcove with blue chairs and a coffee table stacked with outdated magazines. Lane immediately takes a seat at the edge, pulling out her phone. Her thumb swipes up relentlessly, creating an invisible but undeniable barrier between us.
Sanders drops into the chair beside me, leaning close. "Do you think Luke's scared? I wonder if getting a transplant hurts," he whispers, concern written across his face.
I shake my head. "He will need you as his friend to be there with him while he heals, but he will get through it and be better than new."
Lane glances up briefly, her expression unreadable. Then, her gaze drops back to her phone.
