"Your mom said she would be back by one. Go ahead and pack up your stuff so you're ready. You know she will want to get out of here when she gets back."
"Yes, ma'am."
The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it against his leg. He scribbles something with a stubby pencil.
“Text me later,” the boy says, folding the paper and pressing it into Sanders’s hand. “If you want.”
Sanders takes it like treasure, chest puffing with pride. “I’ll send you the video, bro.”
The nurse eases Luke upright, steadying him with a hand at his elbow, and tosses the blanket to the chair. He moves carefully, like each step has to be tested before the next. Still, there’s a stubborn set to his jaw that makes me think this is routine for him.
“Take your time, Luke,” the nurse murmurs. Then, louder: “Your mom just texted me that she's right outside.”
Luke flashes Sanders a quick grin before shuffling toward the door, his IV bandage stark againsthis thin arm.
He waves at Sanders, that faint smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
"See you, Sanders. Good luck with the Christmas thing."
They disappear around the corner. Sanders finally notices me.
"Dad! You're back. I made a friend."
"I saw that. How did you two meet?"
Sanders pockets the small piece of paper. "His name's Luke. He's really cool. He needs a kidney transplant."
His voice carries the weight of someone much older than nine, but the simplicity and matter-of-factness of his words is so naive.
"I'm gonna help him get one."
He says it with such conviction I almost laugh, but I catch myself. Instead, I ruffle his hair, tugging him closer to my side as we walk.
"You've got a big heart, Big Guy."
And he does. Lane's heart. Not mine. The way he walked into that dialysis unit and saw a friend instead of a sick kid, that's all her. I learned to see patients, symptoms, and treatments. Sanders sees people.
Sanders skips to keep up with me in the garage, words tumbling out faster than I can track. “Luke’s parents are divorced. Like you and Mom. But it’s not the same.”
I glance down at him. “Not the same, how?”
“We're still a family, even though you're divorced. He doesn't see his dad. And his mom’s always working. So she’s gone a lot.” He shrugs, but his voice dips low. “He says it’s mostly just him and his little sister.”
The clinical details spool through my brain uninvited: fractured family, minimal support, single mother drowning in hours. The kind of case that falls through cracks too wide in this system.
"Man. That's rough, huh?"
"Yeah. He needs a new kidney, but he can’t get one right now, so he has to hook up to those machines four days a week. He said they might have one for him soon, but he probably can’t get it because his family would have to stay in another city for a long time. But we’re going to help him, because he shouldn’t have to be stuck on that machine forever. Right, Dad?"
I press a kiss to the top of his head, letting him believe what he wants, that he can change the world with sheer will.
I tell myself he'll forget about it tomorrow. Kids always do. But the hollow twist in my gut knows better.
THREE
Lane
The insurance office hums with Monday morning energy. My fingers click across the keyboard in a steady rhythm while my brain splits focus between policy renewals and life logistics.
