Aunt Miranda was swigging Coke straight out of a big plastic bottle, the cats milling around her feet as she ate potato chips off of a flowered plate. It seemed to her that she hadn�t seen the boy around much lately, but she wasn�t really worried. Maybe he�d gone away.
Taylor hadn�t gone away. He was sitting in the backyard with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out at the melting snow. He wasn�t upset anymore, just tired. He didn�t feel like saying anything. There wasn�t anybody to say anything to. He wished Zac was here, instead of gone away.
He coughed. Aunt Miranda didn�t seem to remember where he was. Maybe she�d forgotten about him. Taylor stood up. Maybe he should run away. Maybe he should go find his school, and Dan and Nora�s house. Maybe he should go to the hospital and find Ike.
Taylor bit his lip. Ike would be mad at him if he found out he ran away. Maybe Ike would yell. Or what if he came back to find Taylor here, at Aunt Miranda�s, and Taylor was gone? Ike would be sad then, Taylor decided. He�d have to wait.
It would be hard, though, Taylor decided. He really didn�t like it here. And he wished Aunt Miranda would tell him when he could have something to eat, because he could hear his stomach making noises.
Taylor couldn�t have known that, had he run away from Aunt Miranda�s and went to the hospital to find his brother, Isaac would never have been mad at all. He would have been relieved. He would have been happy. Right now, Isaac would have been happy if the biggest group of medical students in the world had wandered into his room. He just wished someone would come in and see him. And he was embarrassed that he wished that, but it was the way he felt.
Speaking of the way he felt, he didn�t feel that good today. Even if Nora had been there, he wouldn�t have told her, but he really didn�t feel like being alone today. Maybe because he was worried, he decided. If Nora had been there, he wouldn�t have been so worried in the first place.
She isn�t here, he told himself. Deal with it.
Still, every time there were footsteps in the hall, his heart skipped a beat. Maybe she was coming back. . .
And then there would be a nurse who�d put a thermometer in his mouth and wrap a blood pressure cuff around one of his arms, and he�d feel stupid for having gotten his hopes up in the first place.
And now there were footsteps in the hall again, footsteps too soft and gentle to belong to any adult. The inquisitive eyes that peered around the door certainly didn�t belong to an adult, either, and Isaac blinked. Who was this person?
�Hey, kid.� The skinny little boy strode into the room and stood at the end of the bed, his arms folded across his chest. �What are you in for?�
Isaac still wasn�t sure how to answer that. �What are you in for?� he countered.
�CF,� the kid told him. �I�m Paul.� He cocked his chin. �And you are. . .�
�Isaac,� said Isaac. �What�s CF?�
�Cystic Fibrosis,� Paul said, which wasn�t any more help than �CF� had been. Obviously, though, Paul expected Isaac to know what he meant, and so Isaac pretended to go along with it.
�Oh yeah,� he said. �That.�
Paul hopped into the chair by the bed. �You still didn�t tell me what you�re in here for.�
Isaac bit his lip. �I don�t want to talk about it.�
�Why?� Paul asked.
�I don�t, okay?� As much as he thought he�d wanted company, Isaac didn�t want to be nice right now, not to this nosy kid, even if he did have Cystic whatever.
�Jeez,� Paul observed, shaking his head. �Try to ask somebody a question, and they jump all over you.�
�I just don�t know how to say it,� Isaac amended, which was true.
Paul�s eyes widened. �One of those? Did you have to have surgery?�
Isaac nodded. �Yeah.�
�Do you have to do chemo?� Paul was genuinely concerned now.
�What�s that?� Isaac asked.
�It won�t be fun,� Paul told him. �It�s worse than the therapy that I have to do.�
�What therapy do you have to do?� Isaac asked him.
�They make you do positions,� Paul explained. �And they bang on you so you can cough out the mucus.�
�That sounds bad,� Isaac agreed.
�It sucks.� Paul flopped back in his chair and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. �I just got back from morning therapy.� He sat up straight. �I have a fatal disease, you know,� he told Isaac. �Three people die from cystic fibrosis every day.�
Isaac bit his lip. �Are you. . .�
Paul shook his head. �No, I�m not going to die soon,� he said. �I have a few years. I�m just in here because of a lung infection, but I�m not in that often. Yet.�
�How old are you?� Isaac asked.
�Eleven,� Paul told him.
�I�m nine,� Isaac said, realizing that Paul would probably go find someone else to talk to now. He should have lied and said he was ten, at least. He was starting to like Paul.
Paul nodded. �I figured. I don�t look eleven because I�m small for my age, and anyway, my birthday was yesterday. I look more like eight.� He didn�t stand up. �So. . . when are you going to start chemo? Or have you started?�
�I still don�t know what that is,� Isaac told him.
�Your doctor didn�t explain it to you?� Paul asked.
�He didn�t say anything about it,� Isaac was worried. �Should he?�
Paul narrowed his eyes. �Do you have cancer?� he asked.
Isaac was startled. �Nobody told me, if I do,� he said.
Paul leapt out of the chair. �You told me you did!�
�No I didn�t!� Isaac folded his arms across his chest, feeling hot and uncomfortable. �I never said that.�
Paul was thinking. He wrinkled his forehead and thought hard, then smiled. �Oh, right,� he said. �You didn�t. So, what�s really wrong with you?�
�Internal injuries.� Isaac had settled on this as a half-accurate description. �And stuff.�
�How�d you get�em?� Paul prodded.
�I don�t want to talk about that.� Isaac rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about Roy. Or Kathleen.
Paul nodded. �Okay. They let you out of bed yet?�
Isaac shook his head. �No.�
Paul sighed. �That sucks.� He stared at the ceiling again, thinking. �Look. . . when they let you out of bed? Come find me. Just look in all the rooms until you find the one I�m in. . . it probably won�t be my room, because I�m hardly ever in there. You�ll meet more people that way.�
Isaac nodded. �Okay.�
�I�ll show you how to skate on the IV pole,� Paul promised. He checked the watch that hung loose around his bony wrist. �I have to go, though. I have to take enzymes before I eat, for pancreatic function. . .� he squinted. �You probably have no idea what I�m talking about. Anyway, see ya.�
And as quickly as he�d entered, Paul was back in the hall.
Isaac closed his eyes, exhausted. He didn�t know what he�d just been through, but he�d never met a single person who�d made him so tired in his entire life. He hoped Paul would come back, though. It was nice to have someone just sit there and talk.