And Ray.
I knew Ray from the hospital.
He worked in facilities and always seemed to appear whenever Ethan needed a light repaired, a television reset, or someone willing to argue about football.
Ethan called him “Coach Ray.”
Ray insisted his official title was “Commissioner.”
They’d been arguing about it for months.
Ethan also had one ridiculous rule: nobody who entered his room was allowed to simply watch.
If you stood near his table long enough, he’d assign you a plastic player.
“Everybody plays,” he’d say.
But I had no idea why Ray was carrying Ethan’s cheap plastic football game through a professional stadium.
Behind him came four more familiar faces.
A nurse from Ethan’s floor.
A teenage patient named Cody.
Cody’s mother.
And Leo.
Chris saw Leo and looked away.
Months earlier, Leo’s son had been receiving treatment on the same floor.
