“You have his complete history? His records?”
She nodded. “We have everything on file.”
I stood at the rail of his bed and listened to the monitors and watched my son breathe and tried to hold myself together with both hands.
Brendon wept. Loudly, openly, the way people weep when they are in genuine pain. But something about it felt performed in a way I couldn’t quite name — like grief that was trying to accomplish something beyond grieving.
I leaned close to Andrew’s ear.
“I’m right here, baby,” I said. “You don’t have to be brave alone. Not anymore.”
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I thought about the last text he had sent me.
