Dale nodded, understanding immediately. “My grandson’s autistic. Same thing happens to him. Gets overstimulated and can’t come down from it. His brain just keeps firing and firing until his body gives out.”
He adjusted Emmett slightly, creating a cocoon with his arms. Blocking out the bright lights. Muffling the hospital sounds. Creating a small, dark, quiet space where only Dale’s heartbeat and that motorcycle rumble existed.
Ten minutes passed. Emmett’s cries became hiccups. Then whimpers.
Twenty minutes. The whimpers got quieter.
At thirty minutes, Emmett’s breathing changed. Deeper. Slower.
Jessica gasped. “Is he—”
“Sleeping,” Dale said softly. “Real sleep, not just exhaustion. First time in three days, you said?”
Jessica started crying. Not sad crying—relief crying. The kind of crying that comes when you’ve been at the absolute end of your rope and someone throws you a lifeline. Marcus put his arm around his wife, and he was crying too.
“How did you—” Marcus started.
“I’m dying,” Dale said simply, still making that low rumble, still holding Emmett in his protective cocoon. “Got maybe four months left. Lymphoma. When you’re dying, you get real clear about what matters. And right now, what matters is this little guy getting some peace. And his mama and daddy getting a break.”Continue reading…
