His mother was Sarah Carver. She had been very young when he was born, and Brian knew her mostly through photographs, a few recordings of her singing, and the stories his grandfather told when he thought Brian needed cheering up. Sarah loved making cakes badly, painting her fingernails improbable colors, and singing along to songs she did not know the words to. She had died when Brian was three, leaving James to raise him in the old house with the crooked porch.
"Grandpa wasn't good at doing hair," Brian said unexpectedly. "When I was little he used to bring me to Mrs. Alvarez because I kept getting my head stuck in shirts. He didn't know which clothes were the right size, either. Every winter he bought my boots a size too big because he was scared I'd outgrow them before spring."
Millie smiled gently. "Did he have help?"
"Mrs. Alvarez. The school sometimes. Everybody else was busy." Brian rubbed the edge of the chair with his thumb.
"He worked repairs out of the garage at home. Sometimes he took jobs for cash. When my mother died, he stopped taking long trips, so we didn't have much money. But he always came to school if I needed him."
He described the little kitchen where James taught him fractions by measuring oil ratios and where they stretched soup over three meals without turning it into a lesson about hardship. He described how his grandfather had corrected his homework at the table while a disassembled carburetor sat on newspaper beside it. He described Sunday mornings spent listening to engines and the winter nights when James read aloud from whatever book Brian had brought home from the library.
"He made sure you were cared for," Millie said.
"He tried." Brian stared at the floor. "Now I can't do that for him."
"You're thirteen. Loving him doesn't make you responsible for providing the care he needs." Millie kept her voice even. "The hospital has nurses and therapists for that. Your part can still be important. It just doesn't have to be impossible."
Brian wanted to argue, but nothing came. He had spent two weeks measuring his loyalty by the amount of fear he could endure without crying. The idea that he could love his grandfather deeply and still need help felt almost like a trick. He folded his hands in his lap and waited for Millie to ask something else.
She asked about Springfield. Brian knew only the town's name, a printed address, and that the proposed placement was far enough away that visits to County General would be difficult. He had never been outside the region except for a school trip, and he could not imagine his grandfather waking to find the chair beside his bed empty for weeks. That image frightened him more than leaving the house, the school, or even the garage.
"I don't hate the people there," he said. "I know they might be good people. I just don't want to disappear from his life while he's still here."
Millie wrote that sentence down word for word. Then she asked Brian whether he would consider staying with an approved local foster family while Rex's eligibility was reviewed, if that was the safest and quickest option. He considered it and said that he would, provided the family understood how important the hospital visits were. It was the first compromise he had offered without feeling that he was surrendering something essential.
"That's useful," Millie said. "Now tell me something that has nothing to do with court papers. What do you like besides motorcycles?"