I will never forget the smell of that hospital or the way the fluorescent lights looked at three in the morning — too bright, too sharp, too indifferent to what was happening underneath them.
My son Andrew had left the house that afternoon like he always did — sneakers already worn at the toes, a water bottle he would definitely leave somewhere he shouldn’t, kh that particular thirteen-year-old energy that makes everything around them feel slightly louder and more alive. I gave him my usual send-off at the door.
“Take your inhaler, just in case.”
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He rolled his eyes the way he always did. Half-smiled. Grabbed his jacket.
That was the last time I heard his voice.
