I went through everything methodically. His clothes. The shelf above the rod. The floor. My phone buzzed with a text from Brendon — I ignored it and kept looking.
On the highest shelf, tucked behind a stack of old comic books, was a blue shoebox.
I carried it to his bed and sat down.
“Okay, Andrew,” I whispered. “What did you need me to see?”
I lifted the lid.
On top was a cardiology appointment card — a follow-up visit scheduled for the following week at the cardiology clinic where we’d been taking Andrew since he was two years old. He had been born with a minor heart defect, one that had improved significantly over the years, but one that still required monitoring. Still required the annual checks that the cardiologist had been clear about from the beginning.
Beneath the appointment card was a printout from the patient portal.
I read it once. Then again, more slowly, because my brain was refusing to process what my eyes were seeing.
