8
Ethan was hospitalized on Friday.
I learned this from Dr. Kai, who said Ethan
needed surgery or he might not live past
three months.
I asked why he wasn’t having surgery.
“Because the success rate is only ten
percent,” he replied.
When I visited, I brought flowers, trying to be
cheerful.
Ethan smiled back, but mostly gazed out the
window.
“I wished for luck, but they don’t allow cats in
the hospital,” he said.
I cautiously asked, “Do you have any other
family here?”
I wanted to know their opinion on the surgery.
<
He turned, a strained smile on his face. “I
have no family. A car accident three years
ago, I was the only survivor.”
“Now, I’m going too.”
He continued to gaze out the window,
sunlight piercing through, touching his eyes
and hair.
The boy was pale and frail, like a broken iris.
My heart ached, but my words felt powerless.
I visited frequently. The first week, he could
sit outside in the sun.
The second week, he was in a wheelchair,
coughing up blood.
The third week, his head was shaved. He lay
weakly in bed, smiling and asking me what I
wanted to do with my life.
I thought, but found I had no aspirations.
He didn’t mind my lack of an answer. He gave
me a set of keys and an address: “Take care
of Lucky for me.”
When I picked up Lucky, he was huddled near
a security camera, where Ethan could see
him.
“Lucky, good boy.”
He meowed, hoarsely, as if he’d meowed
countless times.
He couldn’t find Ethan, so he stayed where he
could hear his voice.
