Chapter 2 Woody
TWO
Woody
Sanders launches into my truck like a pinball, all elbows and knees and Christmas energy. His backpack hits the floorboard with a thud.
“I rocked it up there last night, huh, Dad?”
“You were perfect, Dude. Could hear you over the entire class.”
His grin splits his face wide open. God, he looks just like his mom when he smiles like that. The single dimple on his right cheek gives him away every time.
I back out of Lane's driveway, glancing at the house in my rearview mirror. Even after all these years, it still feels like my home. I let her have it in the divorce.
I notice the porch light’s still on. That used to drive me crazy when we were married. Wasteful, I’d say. Careless, she’d argue.
"So what's the plan this weekend?" Sanders buckles his seatbelt, still buzzing. "Can we go to the mall? I was hoping we could check out the new video game store that just opened."
"Absolutely. We'll hit the mall, grab some lunch—"
My phone vibrates against the console. The screen lights up with a number I recognize all too well. Cape Fear Regional.
"Shit."
"Dad? Is everything okay?"
"Hold on, Bud. I need to take this."
I answer on the third ring. "Dr. Beamer."
"Dr. Beamer, sorry to bother you. We've got a problem with Mrs. Henderson. The knee replacement from yesterday. She's spiking a fever, white count's elevated. Dr. Peck thinks we might be looking at an infection."
My jaw clenches. Mrs. Henderson is seventy-two, diabetic, high risk for complications. If it's an infection in the joint, she'll need another surgery. Stat.
"What's her temp?"
"102.3 and climbing. Blood cultures are pending, but Peck wants you to take a look."
I glance at Sanders, who's watching me with those sharp hazel eyes. He knows that look on my face. He's seen it a thousand times.
Two hours. Maybe three if we need to go back in.
"I'll be there in twenty."
I hang up and catch Sanders' reflection in the side mirror. His shoulders have sagged just a little.
"Work?" His voice is careful, neutral. Too neutral for a nine-year-old.
“Yeah, but it won’t take long. Promise. We’ll still hit the mall this afternoon. Deal?”
Another promise I might not be able to keep. Story of my life.
I should call Lane to see if she wants me to drop Sanders back off while I handle this. But screw that. The last thing I need is to hear her chastising me. What she doesn't know won't kill her. Sanders and I have this covered.
“It’ll only be a few hours,” I say again, mostly to convince myself.
Sanders nods and puts the small gold chain he's just recently started wearing in his mouth. "Can I have your phone while you're working?"
"Of course, Big Guy."
I turn toward the hospital, that familiar weight settling in my chest.
Cape Fear Regional rises above the riverfront, all glass and steel, like it’s daring the salt air to corrode it. The parking garage hums with traffic, heavy with the sharp mix of exhaust, brine, and wet concrete—that particular hospital cocktail that clings to my scrubs long after I’ve gone home.
Sanders trails behind me, dragging his feet across the polished lobby floor. The Christmas decorations are in full swing. Garland wraps around the information desk, a massive tree by the elevators. It reminds me I need to get my own tree up. Sanders and I will do that this weekend.
"This way, Squirt." He's not so much of a squirt these days, but I've been calling him that since he was a baby.
The pediatric lounge occupies a corner of the second floor, designed to look cheerful with its bright colors and kid-sized furniture.
A few other families cluster around the space.
A woman is bouncing a fussy baby, an elderly man is reading to a little girl with her arm in a cast, and a couple is sitting idly, obviously worried about something.
"Vending machine's right there." I point to the corner. "Here's some money. Get a snack or whatever you want. There's a Starbucks down the hall."
Sanders perks up. "Bet. Thanks, Dad."
He bounces toward the machine, and for a second, he's just a regular kid excited about junk food. Not the child of divorced parents juggling weekend schedules and work emergencies. He's always been a trooper, rolling with the punches.
Two hours. Maybe less if it's straightforward.
Mrs. Henderson's chart flashes through my mind. The precision of yesterday's surgery, the clean incision, the textbook placement of the prosthetic. Infections happen. Not often with my work, but they happen.
"Dad?"
Sanders has claimed a corner chair, my phone balanced on his knees. A YouTube video plays something loud and animated.
"What's up? And turn that down, please. Be considerate of others."
Sanders adjusts the volume, his tongue sneaking out of the side of his mouth while he juggles everything. “No limits, right?” His grin flashes quick and sly, like he’s just won the lottery.
“Within reason.” I raise a brow.
“Reason being, whatever I decide while you’re gone,” he shoots back, thumbs flying as the screen lights his face.
That twinge of guilt settles heavily in my chest, the one I’ve carried since Lane and I split. She’d say I use bribes and screens instead of time. Maybe she’s not wrong. But what’s the alternative? He's a kid. He'll be fine.
I ruffle his hair, more for me than him. “Don't leave the hospital. I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, already deep in whatever he's watching, the blue glow reflecting in his eyes.
"Dr. Beamer?" A nurse appears in the doorway. "Dr. Peck is waiting."
"Back in a flash," I call back to Sanders as I follow her back.
He doesn't look up from the screen, but his shoulders relax just a fraction. The kid's gotten good at rolling with the punches.
The elevator carries me down to the surgical floor, away from Christmas decorations and children's laughter. Back to the place where I know exactly what I'm doing.
The smell of surgical soap clings to my hands as I push through the OR doors. Peck is already bent over the chart, his brow furrowed.
“Sorry to drag you in,” he says, straightening. “I know it’s your weekend with Sand-o. But since it was your case…”
My jaw tightens, but I give a quick nod. I’d rather see it myself anyway. “What’s going on?”
Peck flips the chart closed with a sigh. “Temp spiked to 103.2. Aspiration looks like soup, purulent fluid.”
My stomach dips. Infected prosthetic. Shit. I should’ve known. “We’ll need to go back in, irrigate the hell out of it. If the hardware’s loose or the tissue’s too far gone, I may have to pull it.”
“That’s what I thought.” Peck rubs his forehead. “Figured you’d want eyes on it first since it’s yours.” He hesitates, then adds, “You pick up Sanders yet?”
I exhale hard, already knowing what I’m about to find. “Yeah. You were right to call me," I say, glancing toward the elevators. “Sanders is parked in the lounge with my phone. He won’t even notice I’m gone. Appreciate the call, Peck.”
Peck gives me a wry smile. “I’ll run by and check on him while you’re in there.”
I nod once, then step into Mrs. Henderson’s room for a quick exam. Her hip is red, hot, and draining. No question. This has to be fixed now.
Minutes later, I’m at the scrub sink, the familiar smell of chlorhexidine sharp in my nose.
As I get ready for surgery, Sanders flickers through my mind. He's two floors up, perfectly content, I remind myself. He’s fine.
Then Lane’s voice cuts in, uninvited as always: Always the hospital, Woody. Always something or someone else more important than your family. The words tighten my chest, but I shove them down.
The case pulls me under. Irrigate, debride, flush. The rhythm steadies me until there’s nothing but the work in front of me. Finally, I flood the joint one last time, satisfied the infection’s out.
“Looks clean,” I say, handing off to the PA. “Go ahead and close her up.”
I strip off my gloves, step through the doors, and glance at the clock on the wall. 12:47 p.m.
Shit. Three hours gone.
I strip down to my scrubs and don't bother changing back into my clothes. I need to get to Sanders and take him to lunch. Nabs and Snickers aren't going to do it.
When I reach the lounge, the chair he was sitting in is vacant. I look around, thinking he found a nook somewhere else.
My heart slams against my ribs. Where the hell is he? Christ, Lane will murder me if something happens to him.
Then I remember I told him about Starbucks.
"Excuse me." I approach the hospital volunteer behind the desk, panic making my voice sharp. "My son was in here. Brown hair, green sweater, about this tall. Did you happen to see him?"
He looks up calmly, completely unfazed by my obvious terror.
"Oh, yeah. He made a friend in Dialysis. They've been yucking it up in there for going on two hours."
Dialysis?
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. Of course he made a friend.
I head down the hall, my footsteps echoing off the polished floors.
The hum of machines hits me first. The slow rhythmic pump of blood through tubing, the faint antiseptic bite in the air that's different from the OR. It's heavier in here, somehow. More permanent.
Then I see them.
Sanders is perched in a chair, legs swinging, talking a mile a minute to a boy who's around his age, tethered to a dialysis machine. The kid looks impossibly small against the vinyl recliner, dwarfed by the equipment surrounding him. He's got a yellow and green blanket over his legs.
The boy's skin has that pale, grayish tinge I recognize immediately. It's the color of kidneys that stopped working long ago. His arms are as thin as pencils, one hooked with an IV taped carefully to the crook of his elbow. Dark circles shadow his eyes, making them look decades older than his face.
End-stage renal failure. Written all over him. I know it instantly by looking at his stance, the fatigue, the way he holds himself, like moving takes effort.
But Sanders doesn't see any of that. He's grinning, animated, gesturing wildly as he explains something, and the two of them laugh at something on the phone.
The boy nods, and Sanders scoots his chair closer, holding up my phone next to the boy's. They bend their heads together, Sanders scrolling through videos with the confidence of a digital native.
I stand in the doorway and watch, proud of my son. He's so much more social than I am and has never met a stranger.
The dialysis machine beeps, a sharp electronic sound that cuts through their laughter. A nurse bustles over. She's a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and the efficient movements of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"All done, Luke. How are we feeling?"
"Good. Better."
She disconnects the tubing with practiced movements, her hands gentle as she removes the needle from his arm. Luke winces but doesn't complain. The kid's probably been doing this three or four times a week for months, maybe years.
Christ. What are his odds? Ten percent? Five?
"Your mom said she would be back by one. Go ahead and pack up your stuff so you're ready. You know she will want to get out of here when she gets back."
"Yes, ma'am."
The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it against his leg. He scribbles something with a stubby pencil.
“Text me later,” the boy says, folding the paper and pressing it into Sanders’s hand. “If you want.”
Sanders takes it like treasure, chest puffing with pride. “I’ll send you the video, bro.”
The nurse eases Luke upright, steadying him with a hand at his elbow, and tosses the blanket to the chair. He moves carefully, like each step has to be tested before the next. Still, there’s a stubborn set to his jaw that makes me think this is routine for him.
“Take your time, Luke,” the nurse murmurs. Then, louder: “Your mom just texted me that she's right outside.”
Luke flashes Sanders a quick grin before shuffling toward the door, his IV bandage stark against his thin arm.
He waves at Sanders, that faint smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
"See you, Sanders. Good luck with the Christmas thing."
They disappear around the corner. Sanders finally notices me.
"Dad! You're back. I made a friend."
"I saw that. How did you two meet?"
Sanders pockets the small piece of paper. "His name's Luke. He's really cool. He needs a kidney transplant."
His voice carries the weight of someone much older than nine, but the simplicity and matter-of-factness of his words is so naive.
"I'm gonna help him get one."
He says it with such conviction I almost laugh, but I catch myself. Instead, I ruffle his hair, tugging him closer to my side as we walk.
"You've got a big heart, Big Guy."
And he does. Lane's heart. Not mine. The way he walked into that dialysis unit and saw a friend instead of a sick kid, that's all her. I learned to see patients, symptoms, and treatments. Sanders sees people.
Sanders skips to keep up with me in the garage, words tumbling out faster than I can track. “Luke’s parents are divorced. Like you and Mom. But it’s not the same.”
I glance down at him. “Not the same, how?”
“We're still a family, even though you're divorced. He doesn't see his dad. And his mom’s always working. So she’s gone a lot.” He shrugs, but his voice dips low. “He says it’s mostly just him and his little sister.”
The clinical details spool through my brain uninvited: fractured family, minimal support, single mother drowning in hours. The kind of case that falls through cracks too wide in this system.
"Man. That's rough, huh?"
"Yeah. He needs a new kidney, but he can’t get one right now, so he has to hook up to those machines four days a week.
He said they might have one for him soon, but he probably can’t get it because his family would have to stay in another city for a long time.
But we’re going to help him, because he shouldn’t have to be stuck on that machine forever. Right, Dad?"
I press a kiss to the top of his head, letting him believe what he wants, that he can change the world with sheer will.
I tell myself he'll forget about it tomorrow. Kids always do. But the hollow twist in my gut knows better.