“I’m not.” He turned to look at me. “Mom, I’m scared out of my mind. But every time I think about stopping, I picture him alone in that apartment, skipping dialysis so I wouldn’t see the machine. Hiding it from me. For me.” He shook his head. “He was willing to die quietly so I’d never feel pressured. How am I supposed to walk away from somebody like that?”
I didn’t have an answer. I just held his hand in the dark car until the porch light clicked on.
Ezra fought him the whole way. He called. He texted. He showed up at our house twice, thin and furious, and stood in our kitchen yelling that he didn’t want this, that Wyatt was being an idiot, that he’d rather wait on the list for five years.
Wyatt let him yell. Then he made him a grilled cheese sandwich and put on a movie, and somewhere in the middle of it, Ezra fell asleep on our couch the way he used to when they were ten.
