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“Dad, why wouldn’t Abby let Gen play with me?” He’d been tucking his son into bed.
He brushed the fine shock of hair back from Dylan’s forehead. “You remember I told you Gen had been at the vet?”
Dylan nodded.
“Well, it’s worse than we thought. Gen’s sick, and Abby’s worried about her.”
Dylan popped the end of his pinky into his mouth, chewing the tip of it, an old throwback to a nervous habit he’d had as a young child. “Will she be okay?”
Scott opened his mouth, shut it, cleared his throat. “I... I don’t know, bud.”
Dylan pondered Scott’s words for a long time, then asked, “Will she die?”
“Everyone dies eventually.”
“And Gen? Will she die like Liam?”
Dylan had attended his friend’s funeral but hadn’t understood much of the service. Instead, he’d clutched the small card tucked into the bulletin with Liam’s picture and a short poem about love and loss to his chest.
On Dylan’s other side, Abby and Cara had sat together, shaking hands clutched and knuckles white, eyes shimmering.
When Dylan had cuddled into Abby’s side, she’d ruffled his hair and hugged him, but she had only been half-present, a part of her beyond Dylan and Scott, as was so often the case these days.
Grief-stricken, she sat alongside all those who had helped care for Liam during his long battle.
Dylan had shuffled back across the bench into Scott’s side.
“We hope not. Abby enrolled her in a clinical trial at the university. They’re going to use a new treatment to help Gen get better, and her weekly shots already seem to be making a difference.” Scott couldn’t explain the possibility of Gen being relegated to the control group to Dylan, and with everything in him he’d been hoping she’d been chosen for the treatment group.
Abby couldn’t handle losing Gen.
“Is that why Abby’s been so sad? Because of Liam, and now Gen being sick, too? Does she have what he had?”
Scott leaned down and pressed his cheek to his son’s. “Yes, she does.”
The boy sniffled. “I’m sad.”
“Me, too.”
Shaking his head, Scott brought his attention back to the locker room, back to Coach’s usual pre-game speech, back to the men clustered around him, old faces and new, veterans and rookies, but all wired, all buzzing with the tension of a playoff game. It never got old, never became commonplace. And, as the excitement in the room surrounded him, anchored him, Scott let himself slip into the quiet place in his mind that he found before every game. Losing wasn’t an option. Play hard.Play harder.
Then, at an unseen signal, they trooped out of the locker room. A few of the younger guys whooped, but most of them remained quiet, marshalling calm, game faces on.
Jogging onto the field, Scott headed straight for their sideline, scooped up a ball, backed up and threw a few passes to keep his shoulder warm. Checked the plays, squinted across the field at the bright white of the Texan jerseys, swiveled and found the section where his son sat, Kelly beside him, happy to keep an eye on him so he could be at his dad’s game. National Anthem, coin flip, Raptors defer, and then nothing more than another sixty minutes of playing the best football he could.
Abby couldn’t keep her attention on the game. Gen had only pecked at her breakfast and now curled beside her, eyes dull and tail limp. A high-pitched whine accompanied each exhale.
She rested her hand on the dog’s head and ran her nails along the delicate bones of Gen’s scalp. “It’s okay, girl. I’m right here. You’re okay.” Shifting, she lifted the dog into her lap, cuddling her close.
There wasn’t much else she could do.
She’d picked Gen up the morning after her diagnosis, brought her home, bought two bags of dog food, three types of canned food, and five new bowls, setting each one out so Gen could have her choice.
Rubbing her thumb over Gen’s nose, dry and cracked, she frowned. She wished she could explain to the dog why she needed to drink.
Dehydration had become their greatest threat. Gen refused to lap much more than a mouthful or two of water each day, and if Abby added any liquid to her food, she’d refuse it outright. They’d been back at the vet twice in the last month for IV treatments, but Abby didn’t mind paying, especially not once they’d been accepted into the clinical trial. It had been a relief knowing all of Gen’s care would be covered.
Dr. Singh had personally welcomed her on their first visit, introducing her to the team of graduate students who would run the trial and examining Gen himself. He’d explained the T-cell treatment in detail, answered all her questions, and thanked her for considering their program.