For the next two weeks, the adults arranged more frequent visits whenever possible. Brian brought photographs, music, and his notebooks, sometimes telling long stories and sometimes simply sitting with James's hand in his own. Millie helped him write down questions for the medical team so he would not forget them in the moment. Denise sent food, and Butcher quietly covered Rex's shifts so the boy could spend as much time as he needed with his grandfather.
On the last visit, Brian told James about a drawing he had made for his fourteenth birthday. It showed two figures standing beside a black motorcycle at the top of a hill, with an enormous night sky opening above them. The smaller figure was holding a flashlight. The larger one wore the old canvas jacket James had worn for years, its sleeves rolled back at the cuffs.
"I used to think you were going to teach me everything," Brian said. "And then when you got sick, I thought I had to know it all already, so I could keep everything the way it was. But I don't. I still need help. I think that's okay."
James's breathing was quiet and slow. Brian looked down at his grandfather's hands, the same hands that had taught him how to hold a wrench without hurting the metal beneath it. They were thinner now, the skin translucent in places, but he recognized every old scar and the crooked nail on one thumb. He ran a finger over the callus at the base of James's palm and tried to memorize the feeling.
"You don't have to worry about me," he whispered. "Rex is helping, and so are the others. I go to school and do my homework. I eat breakfast even when I'm not hungry. I'm not alone."
He had wanted to say those words for weeks, but the truth of them had taken time to reach him. He was not promising to become invulnerable; he was telling the old man that people were looking after him. Whether James could fully understand did not change the importance of speaking them aloud.
James Carver died peacefully in his sleep two weeks after that visit. The call came early in the morning, before Brian had left for school. Rex answered it, listened, and sat down slowly at the kitchen table. Brian knew before the man spoke. Something in the silence had changed, and the familiar apartment suddenly felt strange again.
Rex told him gently, using plain words. Brian stood very still, then asked whether there had been pain. Rex repeated what the care team had said about James's comfort and invited him to ask anything else he needed. The boy shook his head and went into his room, closing the door without slamming it.
For a while there was no sound. Then Rex heard something heavy fall against the floor and a muffled cry that made him rise from his chair. He knocked and asked whether Brian was safe. When the boy said yes, Rex offered to stay nearby, then sat outside the door with his back against the hallway wall. He remained there until Brian opened it.
"I don't want to go to school," Brian said.
"You don't have to today. We'll tell them what's happened."
"I don't want to see anybody."
"That's okay for now. I'll be here."