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THE DOOR OPENED HALF AN HOUR LATER

Marcus walked back in.

Behind him stood a woman.

Late thirties.

Hair pulled into a messy bun.

Eyes swollen from crying.

Beside her—

a little boy in hospital pajamas.

Adrian went completely still.

The woman looked at him.

Then at me.

“You must be Claire.”

I stood.

“Rachel?”

She nodded.

The boy hid behind her.

Rachel’s voice shook.

“I needed to thank him.”

Adrian immediately said:

“You don’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Adrian.”

She looked toward her son.

“He wouldn’t be standing here if you hadn’t gone back.”

Adrian glanced at me.

I knew what he was thinking.

The argument wasn’t over.

But this wasn’t the moment.

The boy stepped forward.

He held a folded piece of paper.

He handed it to Adrian.

Adrian opened it.

A drawing.

A red fire truck.

A stick-figure firefighter.

A stick-figure boy.

Above them, in large uneven letters:

THANK YOU FOR COMING BACK.

Adrian’s eyes filled.

So did mine.

Rachel said:

“He hasn’t stopped asking whether you’re okay.”

Adrian looked at him.

“I’m okay, buddy.”

The boy pointed at his shoulder.

“You look broken.”

I laughed through tears.

Adrian said:

“A little.”

“Will you get fixed?”

“Probably.”

The boy nodded.

Satisfied.