“You didn’t have to walk me to school, Dad.” The wind whipped around the edges of a hand-hemmed skirt, the stitches slightly erratic but strong.

“It’s your first day at a new school. I wanted to make sure you got here okay.” The late summer sun beat down on a button-down shirt and tie.

“We’re five blocks from home.”

“Most accidents occur within five miles of home.”

“That’s in cars.”

“Good thing we walked, then.” As they neared the campus a swirl of minivans, bicycles, and skateboards passed them by, ignoring them save for a few headturns. “I see other parents around.”

“Great, you’ve joined the helicopter squad.”

“You have your class schedule printed out?”

The backpack shifted over a broad shoulder, the blouse beneath showing stitches similar to the skirt. “First period English, snore. I’ll navigate alright.”

“You have Mrs. Feld’s number?”

“Saved on speed dial, right after ‘Over-Protective Parent’ at #1.”

As they neared the building they slowed, their steps growing short. “Her office is on the east side of the gym, you can always go there if you have any problems. Don’t forget to stay on campus - remember to make allies, not just friends. Kids who will jump into a fight instead of Instagramming it.”

“Really?”

“I mean it, find a few honorable delinquents and gain their trust. I hid some JUUL refills in the bottom of your backpack, you can use them to buy influence.”

″Seriously Dad?” The backpack came down with a soft thump, hands covering it protectively. “What the hell??”

“Hey, if you don’t use them you can leave them there. They’ve got my fingerprints on them, I'll go down for them if anyone asks.”

With a sigh, the backpack shifted back up into place. “You’re certified, Dad. Past the helicopter brigade, you’re a drone parent now.”

“I...” The footsteps stopped, stalling on the sidewalk. “I know I’m not brave, okay? You get that from your mother. But that doesn’t mean I’m not damn proud of you. If the world has improved at all since my time in school, kids like you made it that way.”

A lip-glossed smile crept up beneath long, semi-curled locks. “Is this my obligatory pep talk now? ’Cause I’m good. Really. You can go back to work now.”

“Right, unnecessary dorky Dad moment.” Cuff links clinked as large arms wrapped around the slightly shorter figure next to them, encompassing them in a hug. “I love you, Sam.”

Reflexively the shoulders stiffened, then sagged as smaller arms wrapped back around. “It's Samantha, please."

"Crap. I'll get that right, one day."

"I still love you too, Drone Dad.” They held together for a couple seconds more. “You know this looks worse when I’m dressed like this.”

“Oh well. I’m already going down for contributing nicotine to minors."

The hands pulled away, latching back onto the straps of the backpack and shifting it again. "Go to work, Dad. I got this."

"I know." A warm smile and a wave bid the teenager goodbye as a bell rang in the distance. "Have a good day!"

There was a quick wave back before lightly tan sandals hit the pavement and disappeared in a sea of puberty.

Wow he's grown so much. The father thought, then corrected himself. She - she's grown so much.

With a heavy sigh, he waited and watched until the long, flowing locks disappeared indoors, looking for any signs of nerves or second-thoughts but seeing none.

One day I'll get it right.

Turning, he smiled and walked back towards their home, so conveniently close to the local high school. Not that he would ever tell Samantha he'd taken the day off to work from home. She'd never let him live that down. Drone Dad, indeed.

In the meantime...maybe he'd gotten enough right, at least for today.

Something told me I had seen him at this hospital some years ago. It bothered me all day yesterday, as much as something trivial can bother me, until finally I realized it over lunch—I had indeed seen him before, five years ago at least, because he would visit one of my patients.

“That’s not her,” he had told me one day for no reason.

I had raised an eyebrow; professionally, I hope. I still had several more patients to examine that morning.

“That’s not her anymore,” he said again. “She wouldn’t say those things. When is she coming back?”

He seemed calm enough, but I explained, even more calmly, that painkillers often kill more than just pain.

“But we’ve been together for years,” he said, as if it were relevant. “You’re saying an accident and a few drugs can erase all of …”

I was waiting for him to finish, but evidently my face was already saying “Yes,” and he saved us both the breath.

I don’t go in for sentiment, not in my line of work, but I made a rare concession just then. “Sir. You’re her husband? Fiancé?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, well, you’re her something.” His head nodded itself. “Whatever she may say or do from now on,” I tossed a glance toward the distant hospital bed, “that is still her. If you’re still going to be her something, then you’re going to have to get used to that.”

He looked up at me. It is amazing what lack of empathy will do sometimes.

“But will she get better? Her …?” He knew mind wasn’t quite the right word, nor was memory or personality; whatever her name was, he was probably about to turn it into an abstract noun, like Suzy-ness, until I saved him the trouble and told him I didn’t know. No one knew.

“Could she get worse?” I gave him the same answer, since it was true. I remember part of me later at lunch, apparently the part that was going soft, reflecting to myself that for all I knew, the next time I saw her in the hospital, she may well be treating him worse than a stranger. But I theorized I would be seeing him here nonetheless. The next day she was transferred and I promptly forgot about them both.

Well, my theory was still right; half-right, at any rate. I did see him again at the hospital after all, only it was years later, just yesterday, and this time, he was a patient. Brain tumor; a nasty one. Crept right up on him because he is young. Late this morning I went in to check on him; of course he was unconscious and is going to be spending most of his time that way from now on. I was annoyed with myself for suddenly wondering what ever happened to the young woman of his in her new hospital five years before; how much worse she had gotten, and whether his visits tapered off when he gradually realized he was visiting a stranger.

I don’t think she recognized me when we collided in the doorway. It was her, without doubt; she had obtained a visitor pass at the desk, and as far as I was concerned that was all I needed to know. I nodded, professionally, and busied myself with his chart.

I had to return about an hour later, and she was still there, melded into the bedframe. Sometimes the only things that act remotely alive in a hospital room are the machines, blinking and chirping all around the motionless humans nearby. I was going to have to ask her to leave for a few minutes, and I was about to do so when I realized she was already speaking.

“And I’ll read your favorite books to you …” I could barely hear her, since I was not supposed to be hearing her at all. “ … and I’ll tell you the flavor of the day at Bernie’s every day …” I scratched a little louder with my pen, but she didn’t notice. “… and I’ll sing to you … I’ll sing all the songs we play together at the coffee shop … and I’ll bring you a bottle of water out of the pool … and the seashells we collected from the beach … and I’ll read out of your journal you write in code and I’ll hope that I’ll finally mispronounce so many words that you’ll wake up just to correct me …”

She seemed to be pausing, so I prepared my professional glide toward her side. But just then she leaned in further.

“Hey.” She was whispering now, just above his head. “Hey brain. You have to be okay.” She stifled something in the back of her throat. “You have to stop hurting him.” I had stopped writing and was standing still now. She went on, talking neither to me nor to him.

“He’s kind …

“… he always thinks of me before himself …

“… he tries to make me coffee …

“… he reads all the books I like …”

Each of her reasons was slower and quieter than the one before.

“… he always sends me messages even when I don’t send any back …

“ … he just saw the ocean for the first time …

“ … he’s stubborn …

“… he’s so smart; and sometimes he’s so dumb …

“… and he’s messy …

“… and—”

She finally broke down. And I turned around and left her in that room. It would be the first time in my professional career that I would fall a little behind schedule for the morning. Lunch would be shorter today. But just as well. For some reason I do not want too much time to think.