Chapter 24: The Table

On the morning of the transplant, Milo sat up in a hospital bed in a gown printed with fish.

Biscuit sat on his knee.

Three nurses had washed him and cleared him for the room.

A clear bag of dark red hung from a pole beside the bed.

"Is that juice?" Milo asked.

"It's something your sister made for you," Timothy said.

He sat on the edge of the mattress with his sleeves rolled.

"She made it? She's a baby."

"She started early."

Milo thought about that.

"Okay," he said. "Can Biscuit watch?"

"Biscuit has the best seat in the house."

I stood on the other side of the bed with one hand over my mouth.

The nurse opened the line.

Milo watched the tube fill, and he put his small hand into Timothy's scarred one and kept it there.

He was asleep by the time it finished.

Timothy did not move for an hour.

On the hundredth day after the transplant, we brought him home.

His hair had begun to grow back, soft and dark.

He walked into the glass house on his own legs, with a mask hanging round his neck.

He went straight to the kitchen and demanded bread.

That Sunday my sister took over my kitchen and would not be argued with.

My brother-in-law carved the chicken.

Calvin arrived at one with a bag of oranges.

He set it on the counter and stood there, awkward, looking at the floor.

"You brought oranges," I said.

"It seemed like the right fruit."

I laughed, and after a moment so did he.

He didn't come in as someone who belonged to me.

He came in as someone who had earned a seat at the end of the table.

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