Ethan had always been laughter and noise—sticky hands from candy, endless running. Now he looked impossibly small in that bed, surrounded by tubes.
“There has to be something else,” Michael pleaded. “Money isn’t an issue.”
“Sometimes medicine reaches its limit,” the doctor replied. “I’m sorry.”
After the doctor left, Michael sat beside the bed and held Ethan’s cold hand. Tears came without permission.
How do I tell Sarah? he thought.
His wife was at a medical conference in Seattle. She would return in two days. Two days—when their son had five left.
The door opened again.
Michael expected a nurse. Instead, a little girl walked in.
She couldn’t have been more than six. She wore a worn school uniform and an oversized brown sweater. Her dark hair was messy, like she’d been running. In her hands, she carried a cheap, gold-colored plastic bottle.
“Who are you?” Michael asked, startled. “How did you get in here?”
The girl didn’t answer. She walked straight to the bed, climbed onto a stool, and looked at Ethan with a seriousness far beyond her age.
“I’m going to save him,” she said.
Before Michael could react, she opened the bottle and gently sprinkled water onto Ethan’s face.