Stetson forgave us on a Monday. Two weeks later, I nearly made him an only child.
Chandler came home with him after school that Monday. I was at the kitchen table with my algebra packet when they came through the garage, arguing about a pass Stetson insisted had been perfectly good.
“You sent it behind me,” Chandler said, setting his bag by the door.
“You were supposed to turn.”
Chandler looked at him. “And run backward?”
Stetson opened the fridge. I caught Chandler’s eye, and he gave me a small nod. They’d talked. I still wanted to ask how it had gone, but Stetson was already complaining that Chandler had taken the last blue Gatorade, and I let them finish.
“There’s a red one,” Chandler said.
“I can see that.” Stetson took it anyway and shut the fridge with his foot. He glanced at me as he unscrewed the cap. “Noelle said Tahni was being a pain this morning.”
“Asked if you found out from the picture, too. I told her it wasn’t her business.” I pushed the packet aside. “And some other stuff.”
Chandler stopped beside the table. “She say anything about taking it?”
“Not to me. Noelle heard her bragging about it at lunch.” I set down my pencil. “It was her.”
Stetson looked at the bottle in his hand. “Of course it was.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You shouldn’t have found out like that.”
“I know.” He looked up at me. “We talked about it, Sloane.” He turned toward Chandler. “You’re still bringing chips Sunday.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Stetson headed into the living room, calling Bernard off the couch before dropping onto it himself. Chandler pulled out the chair beside me and sat down. His hair was still damp at the temples, the strawberry-blond tips of his faux hawk sticking up where he’d pushed them back.
“You all right?” he asked quietly.
I nodded toward the living room. “You guys?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at my packet. “How far did you get?”
“Not far enough.” I pulled it between us and handed him a pencil. In the living room, Stetson turned on the television and called out that we were missing the start of the game. Chandler asked him to wait a minute while I found the problem I’d been stuck on.
Two weeks later, on Tuesday, December thirtieth, Chandler was on our couch with me tucked against his side, trying to convince Stetson that the movie we’d picked was actually good.
Christmas had come and gone in between, with Stetson giving Chandler a box of cereal labeled Trust Tax. Uncle Jake insisted on getting a picture of the two of them holding it. By the end of the afternoon, my brother was complaining that Chandler had eaten half his present without offering him any.
Stetson occupied the recliner with one socked foot hanging over the arm and the popcorn bowl balanced on his stomach. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, though he’d complained five minutes earlier that the house was too warm.
“It’s ninety minutes of people making terrible decisions in snow,” he said when the main character drove into yet another blizzard. “I could go outside and watch that.”
“You’d have to go outside first,” I told him, shifting closer to Chandler beneath the blanket.
Stetson made an offended noise but didn’t take his eyes off the television. “Cruel. From my own twin.” He reached into the popcorn bowl and tossed three kernels into his mouth like I’d ruined his evening.
He lasted another twenty minutes before deciding he’d suffered enough. By then my head was resting against Chandler’s shoulder, his arm was around me, and Stetson had spent most of the movie making gagging noises whenever Chandler touched my hand.
“Nope. I’m done.” He stood, scooping up the popcorn as he went. “I’m not watching you two cuddle through the rest of this.”
“You could try looking at the television instead of us,” I suggested, lifting my head to watch him retreat.
“You could both get hobbies.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pointed at Chandler. “And don’t say soccer.”
Chandler grinned. “Wasn’t going to.”
“Liar.”
Stetson disappeared upstairs with the popcorn, leaving us with an empty coffee table and absolutely no snacks.
“Your brother’s handling this really well,” Chandler said, reaching for the remote.
“Practically a model of emotional maturity.” I settled against his shoulder again, pulling the blanket over my knees. “Give him another week. He might even stop stealing our food.”
Chandler laughed and turned the movie back up. In the kitchen, Dad was trying to reach around Pops for a mug. Pops leaned back against him instead of moving, and Dad kissed the side of his neck.
“You could say excuse me,” Pops said.
“Would you move?”
“Probably not.” He handed Dad a mug, and Dad rested his chin on Pops’ shoulder while the kettle heated. I pulled Chandler’s arm more comfortably around me.
My crutches stood against the end table where I could reach them, and the wheelchair was parked beside the couch for when I needed it. We’d gotten good at arranging the living room so nobody tripped over my entire orthopedic collection.
A little before eight, I pulled the second blanket over me. I’d felt all right when we started the movie, but now I couldn’t get warm. Within minutes I was shaking hard enough that my teeth clicked. Bernard pressed against my right leg, and Chandler sat forward beside me.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s December. Congratulations on identifying the season.”
He didn’t laugh. He reached for the thermometer on the side table. “Sloane.”
I hated how much he could put into two syllables. “Don’t.”
“We’re checking.” He raised his voice toward the kitchen. “Uncle Zack?”
Pops came in before I could say anything else. He took one look at Chandler holding the thermometer and held out his hand for it.
Nobody offered to wait and see. We all knew the rules on the fridge: 100.4 or higher: call immediately. My counts had been dangerously low at the last check.
The thermometer beeped. Pops read the number.
“One-oh-two point seven.” He handed the thermometer to Chandler and turned toward the kitchen.
“Nick,” he called, too calmly. Dad was in the doorway before Pops finished saying his name. Chandler moved the coffee table while Pops brought my wheelchair closer.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said, though the words came out between shivers.
Nobody answered. Dad was already on the phone with the oncology line, and Pops had taken the keys from the hook by the garage.
Chandler reached for my packed hospital bag just as Stetson came down the stairs. My brother saw the thermometer on the table and shoved his feet into the sneakers by the door. Chandler slung the bag over his shoulder, and the two of them moved toward the garage without needing to discuss it.
Chandler steadied my wheelchair while Pops helped me transfer, keeping my left leg off the floor. Dad put my coat around me and adjusted the leg support. At the garage door, Chandler crouched beside me.
“Stetson and I will follow you in the Jeep,” he said.
I nodded, trying to make my teeth stop chattering long enough to answer. He pressed my bag into Stetson’s hands, then took out his phone to call Uncle Jake while Dad and Pops helped me into the Suburban.
Through the window, Stetson climbed into Chandler’s Jeep with my hospital bag on his lap. The headlights came on just as Pops backed us out.
Chandler waited while Pops pulled onto the street, then followed us out of the cul-de-sac.
The drive to Aurora was fast and quiet. Every streetlight hurt my eyes. Pops drove with both hands locked around the wheel while Dad kept the oncology nurse on speaker, answering questions about my temperature and the last time I’d had chemo.
In the side mirror, Chandler’s headlights stayed a few car lengths behind us. I tried to keep watching them, but after a while the light made my head hurt too much.
They took me straight back at the ER at Aurora Children’s. A nurse accessed my port and drew blood cultures while someone else checked my blood pressure. Dad answered questions I couldn’t make myself concentrate on. I was still shaking when they started the antibiotics.
The blood pressure cuff tightened again. The nurse read the screen, then moved the cuff and checked once more. She called the doctor over without leaving my bedside.
“We need another fluid bolus,” he said. A second nurse came in while he listened to my chest.
I watched the ceiling while someone started an IV in my arm. The nurse kept asking me questions. My name. Where I was. I knew the answers, but getting them out took longer than it should have.
Stetson was beside my bed when I turned my head. Pops had stepped out to speak to a doctor, and my brother had taken his place. I hadn’t seen Chandler since a nurse directed him to the family waiting area.
Stetson’s phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He checked it and typed something one-handed without letting go of the rail.
I whispered Chandler’s name, and Stetson glanced up from his phone. “He’s with his dad. I told him they started antibiotics.” His eyes flicked to the monitor. “He knows we’ll update him.”
I wanted to ask whether he could come in, but I lost track of the question. A nurse stepped between Stetson and the bed. He let go of the rail and backed out of her way.
Somebody said septic shock. Somebody else said PICU. Dad’s hand was on my forehead. Pops was back, asking the doctor what medication they were starting.
The last thing I remembered clearly was the nurse with the gold cross saying, “Keep talking to me, sweetheart,” and thinking that was a strange thing to say, because where else would I go?
When I woke up, I tried to push myself higher on the pillow. My elbows shook before I’d moved more than an inch, and I had to lie back down. There was oxygen tubing beneath my nose and an IV in my arm as well as the line connected to my port. I looked at the unfamiliar doorway until Dad leaned into view.
“There you are, Fiorellina.”
He was still in Tuesday’s sweater, his eyes red around the rims. He reached for the call button. A nurse came in and raised the head of the bed while Dad helped me settle against the pillow. I was out of breath by the time she finished.
Pops stood at the foot of the bed. He’d missed a patch shaving along his jaw.
“You’re in the PICU,” Dad said. “You had an infection in your bloodstream. Your blood pressure dropped, and they gave you fluids and medication to bring it up. You’re responding to the treatment.” He glanced at the nurse, who nodded. “It’s Wednesday.”
Wednesday. December thirty-first. Dad’s jacket was draped over one chair. Stetson was asleep sideways in the other, his head against the wall, still in Tuesday night’s hoodie. His phone rested on his knee, and one hand was curled around it.
I asked whether Stetson had slept. Pops followed my gaze to the chair and shook his head. “Not much. He kept insisting he’d close his eyes when you did.”
I reached for my phone on the tray table. My hand got about halfway there before the effort made it shake. Pops came around the bed and put it in my palm.
Sixty-three messages in the group chat. Noelle, eleven times, the last one at 4 a.m.: please wake up please please. Tinsley, once: stubborn. stay that way. Maekynzie had sent a purple heart every hour since Tuesday night. I looked at them longer than I meant to. She could send those from anywhere. A hospital was the one place she couldn’t make herself go. Emory had sent a voice memo of himself playing something soft on guitar that I couldn’t listen to yet.
Chandler had sent a message to the group just after midnight: I’m at the hospital. Dad’s with me. Tell me when there’s news. In our messages, he’d written again a few hours later.
Chandler: You don’t have to answer. Just wanted you to know I’m here.
I tried to type something back, but my hand was shaking too much. “Can you tell him I read it?” I asked, holding the phone out to Pops.
The nurse asked Pops to move so she could check the IV in my arm. He sent Chandler a message while she worked, then set my phone within reach.
Stetson woke around noon, the chair creaking as he sat up. He saw me watching him and crossed the room so quickly he nearly tripped over Dad’s bag.
“You look terrible,” I told him.
“You should see yourself,” he said. He tried to grin, but it didn’t last. He stopped beside the bed with one hand caught in his hoodie pocket. “You scared us, Sloane. They made us move out of the way, and I couldn’t see you. Dad kept asking questions, but I couldn’t hear the answers.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I said. He picked at a loose thread on his hoodie.
“I know, idiot.”
He pulled the chair closer until his knee touched the bed frame. He looked so miserable that I finally asked about Chandler, mostly to give him something else to think about.
“He stayed until Uncle Jake made him go home and sleep.” Stetson took out his phone. “Want me to tell him you’re insulting people again?”
“Tell him you called me an idiot,” I said.
Stetson snorted and typed anyway, his shoulders relaxing a fraction when the reply came through. He turned the screen toward me.
Chandler: Sounds like her.
New Year’s Eve in the PICU sounded exactly like every other night in the PICU. The pump. The cuff. Somebody’s alarm two rooms down. A nurse laughing quietly at the station about something on her phone.
Dad fell asleep in the chair around eleven with his reading glasses still on. Stetson had gone home with Uncle Jake to shower and get clean clothes. Pops took Dad’s glasses off, folded them, and tucked them into the case. Dad stirred and caught his hand. Pops bent to kiss him before settling into the other chair.
At midnight, a faint popping sound came through the glass. Pops lifted his head and checked the clock before coming closer to my bed.
Somewhere past the parking garage, fireworks were going off over Aurora. Little muffled pops. I couldn’t see them from the bed, but Pops turned toward the window as another one went off.
Last year at midnight, I’d been on Noelle’s roof, freezing, screaming the countdown, Stetson and Chandler throwing snow at us from the yard.
“Happy New Year, Sunshine,” Pops said softly.
“Pops.” My voice came out scratchy. “Did you know about Chandler before Stetson did?”
He glanced at Dad, still asleep in the chair, then back at me.
“I had a pretty good idea by Thanksgiving,” he said. “You kept looking for him whenever he left the room.”
“I did not.”
Pops raised his eyebrows. “Sunshine.”
I looked down at the blanket. I’d thought I’d been less obvious than that.
“You didn’t tell Stetson.”
“It wasn’t mine to tell. But I wish you two had talked to him sooner.”
“So do I.” I waited while he pulled the chair closer. “He was pretty mad.”
“He was hurt.” Pops sat down beside me. “He loves both of you.”
Dad shifted in his sleep, and Pops reached back to rest a hand on his knee. I listened to the last few fireworks until I couldn’t tell them apart from the noises in the hall.
On New Year’s Day, I sat upright with the bed raised while a nurse and a physical therapist helped me balance. After a few minutes, I needed to lie back down. Everyone acted like it was a huge success.
The PT, a cheerful guy in Crocs named Malik, said I’d be weak for a while. Dad said the doctors would talk about discharge once my infection, blood pressure, and counts were stable. My radiation consultation was scheduled for the week of January fifth. Now the oncology and radiation teams would have to decide whether I was well enough to keep it and when treatment could begin.
The hospital teacher was helping arrange homebound classes for when I got home. If the radiation plan went ahead, I could have treatment every weekday, with Mrs. Beckem fitting lessons around appointments. Dad had spoken to the school. I wouldn’t be going back for a while.
I pictured my locker in Hall A and the volleyball hanging inside. I hadn’t brought it home because I’d thought I’d be back. Now Dad was talking about collecting my books, and I didn’t know how to tell him I wanted the ball left where it was.
Nonna Val texted from New Jersey that afternoon. Dad held the phone so I could read it.
Nonna Val: Tesoro mio!! I lit a candle for you at St. Ann’s. Two candles. Your father says you are tough. I told him I know, you get it from me. Call when you can. No rush. 🕯🕯
I laughed, then had to stop and catch my breath before asking Dad to send her a heart.
Stetson came back after lunch and parked himself in the chair by the wall, earbuds in but no music playing. He kept handing me things before I’d asked for them. By the fourth time he wanted to know whether I needed anything, I told him the only thing I needed was for him to stop interviewing me like a witness.
“Great. She’s back.” He grinned down at his phone and stayed quiet for almost five minutes.
That night, my night nurse was a tall woman named Dee with silver hoop earrings and the low, unhurried voice of somebody who’d been working nights for twenty years. She was changing out a bag on my IV pole, talking the way nurses talk to fill up the quiet.
“You’ve got a lot of people, kiddo,” she said. “Your dads have been here, and your brother practically lives in that chair.”
Dee checked the pump before she left. I looked at my phone on the tray table. Chandler had sent a picture of Dashiell watching him through the shelter gate, followed by a message.
Chandler: Dad’s picking Stet up. Want him to bring anything?
I typed you, then deleted it. That one I wanted to say to his face. I sent call tomorrow? instead and stayed awake until he answered.