Dale stood in the doorway, this big bearded biker in a leather vest, bald from chemo, an IV port visible in his arm. He looked like death warmed over, but his eyes were soft.
“Ma’am,” Dale said quietly. “I know I look scary. But I raised four kids and helped with eleven grandkids. Would you let me try?”
She was too exhausted to care anymore. Her son had been admitted two days ago with a severe respiratory infection.
The hospital environment, the treatments, the fear—it had overwhelmed him completely.
He hadn’t truly slept in three days, just passed out from exhaustion before waking up screaming again.
“His name is Emmett,” Jessica said, her voice breaking. “He’s two and a half. He’s terrified of this place. Of the doctors. Of everything. And I can’t… I can’t help him anymore.”
Dale approached slowly, letting Emmett see him. The boy was still screaming, but his eyes tracked this new person. Dale knelt down—his knees protesting—to get on the child’s level.
“Hey there, little man,” Dale said in a low, rumbling voice. “You having a real bad day, huh?”
Emmett screamed louder, reaching for his mother.
“I get it,” Dale continued, not trying to touch him yet. “This place is scary. Lots of strangers poking you. Bright lights. Beeping machines. Your mama’s scared too, I bet. Your daddy. Everyone’s scared. And that’s a lot for a little guy to handle.”Continue reading…
