“Mom, there’s 13 of them now.”
I kissed the top of his head.
“You’re counting yourself, aren’t you?”
“Obviously.”
Over the following weeks, Drew’s condition worsened.
There were days when he barely had the strength to speak, but Dr. Harris kept coming to see him. Sometimes he brought photographs from rides. Sometimes they simply sat together.
The bikers sent postcards and short messages. Wade visited when Drew felt up to company.
Publicidad
My mother came one afternoon and found two enormous men sitting beside Drew, listening while he explained his favorite game.
Afterward, she pulled me aside.
“I suppose we were wrong about those tattoos.”
I smiled.
“Very wrong.”
Drew lived almost three months after the day we received his prognosis.
Near the end, he asked me to hang his vest where he could see it.
One evening, he looked at me and said, “Mom, are you going to be okay?”
