Finn accepted that more easily than any of us did.
The next several hours moved in that strange hospital rhythm where everything feels urgent and slow at the same time.
There were repeat blood tests.
Fluids.
Careful monitoring.
Questions about when the symptoms had started.
How often Finn had been urinating.
Whether he’d complained of blurry vision.
Whether his appetite had changed.
Whether anyone had noticed weight loss before the trip.
Each question pulled another memory into focus.
Lydia remembered buying Finn new shorts earlier that summer because his old ones suddenly seemed too loose.
She had assumed he’d gotten taller.
Shane remembered Finn waking him twice one night asking for water.
They had blamed the air-conditioning because the rental bedroom felt dry.
My dad remembered Finn turning down ice cream two evenings earlier.
Nobody had thought anything of it.
Why would they?
Families don’t live their lives like medical charts.
