Renata came out of a room halfway down the hall. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a month. She took my hand without a word and led me to the doorway of Room 409.
Ezra was in the bed.
He was hooked to a dialysis machine, tubes running from his arm to a humming gray tower. His face was the color of old paper. His dark, wavy hair stuck to his forehead. The same hair as my son’s.
He was asleep.
I put my hand over my mouth.
“He was diagnosed at sixteen,” Renata whispered. “A disease where the kidneys slowly scar. We thought we had years. Then this spring, everything sped up. He started dialysis in April, three times a week. He made us promise not to tell anyone. Especially Wyatt.”
“Why?”
“Because he knew Wyatt.” She almost smiled. “He knew Wyatt would offer before he could even finish the sentence. And Ezra didn’t want that. He said he’d rather wait on the list.”
