Chapter 3 Lane
THREE
Lane
The insurance office hums with Monday morning energy. My fingers click across the keyboard in a steady rhythm while my brain splits focus between policy renewals and life logistics.
Chicken in the fridge needs to be cooked tonight.
Did I remember to sign that field trip form for the school trip in January?
I make a mental note to check on the school website during my lunch break. I only have to get through today, and then I'm off for two weeks for the holidays.
The office around me buzzes with phones ringing and the low murmur of clients in the waiting area.
Mrs. Kletchens sits in her usual spot, thumbing through an outdated People magazine, waiting for her quarterly policy review.
My phone vibrates with a text from my sister, but before I can check it, a shadow falls across my keyboard.
"Oh my god, Lane! Congrats on your son!"
I freeze mid-keystroke, looking up to find Hannah, our twenty-three-year-old receptionist, bouncing anxiously beside my desk. Her enthusiasm radiates like heat waves, phone clutched in her manicured hand.
"Excuse me? What did my son do to earn a congrats?"
My entire body tightens. Something about her excitement is off, like walking into a surprise party when you thought it was a regular Tuesday.
Hannah laughs, her blond ponytail swinging as she leans closer. "You don't know? He's famous! Everyone's talking about him right now."
My pulse picks up speed. Famous? Sanders? The word crashes against my mental image of my awkward nine-year-old trying to use words he saw on a meme, but doesn't really know what they mean.
"I—what? What are you talking about?"
Hannah taps frantically at her phone screen, sliding into the chair beside my desk. "He's all over social media this morning! Look!"
She thrusts her phone under my nose, and there's Sanders, my Sanders, his earnest face filling the screen. He's sitting in what looks like a hospital room, next to a thin boy with an IV in his arm. Their heads are bent together, laughing at something on a phone.
"That video has like twenty thousand views already," Kayla says, swiping to another screen. "And this one's at thirty-five thousand!"
Thirty-five thousand people have seen my child?
The second clip shows Sanders talking directly to the camera. "...and Luke needs a kidney transplant, but his family can't afford to stay in Durham for the recovery time after surgery at Duke. So me and my parents are starting our #SaveChristmas challenge to help Luke get a new kidney!"
My fingers hover uncertainly above my keyboard while my brain struggles to process.
Why is my son in a hospital room? When did he make these videos? And what the hell is he volunteering us for?
"He's such a sweet kid," Kayla gushes. "Everyone in the comments is saying how awesome your family is for helping this boy."
I force a quick smile and lean back, fighting to keep my expression neutral while my intestines twist into knots.
"Is this some challenge thing? He was telling me something about it Saturday morning before he left to go to his dad's."
"Yes! The #SaveChristmas challenge,” Hannah says, eyes shining. “It’s where people do something kind for someone else to remind everyone what the season’s really about. But your son and his friend just raised the bar. They’re asking the world to come together so this boy can get his kidney.”
"I'm in shock. I don't really know what to say right now."
She lowers her voice, like even she can’t believe it. “People are sharing it like crazy. The comments are full of folks begging to donate, asking where they can send money. News outlets are already picking it up.”
Everyone knows about this before me?
My fingers curl into my palm as I reach for my phone, wondering exactly what my ex-husband has gotten our son involved in, and why I'm learning about it from my coworker instead of either of them.
I snatch my phone up, fumbling to unlock it. Five missed calls from Woody. Three text messages.
"It's insane, Lane," Hannah insists, perching on the edge of my desk like she's settling in for story time as she scrolls and I spiral.
My brow furrows, and the metallic taste of panic coats my tongue as I scroll through Woody's texts.
Need to talk ASAP. Call me.
Sanders put up a video on social media, and it's taken off.
He's gone viral. Don't freak out.
I exhale slowly, trying to reconcile the image of my quiet, rule-following nine-year-old with this idea of viral fame. Saturday morning flashes through my mind—Sanders at the kitchen table, milk dripping from his spoon as he gestured with enthusiasm.
"Mom, can we do something big for #SaveChristmas?"
The guilt prickles sharply behind my ribs. I'd brushed him off, told him we'd talk about it after his weekend with Woody.
"See?" Hannah swipes to another video. "Your ex-husband is in this one, too. He's explaining Luke's medical situation."
My heart drops at the sight of Woody in his white coat, looking so damn doctorly and responsible. His voice flows with that perfect balance of authority and compassion that used to make my knees weak.
"Luke needs a kidney transplant," video-Woody explains. "But insurance won't cover housing for his family during recovery. That's where we come in."
We? When exactly did we decide this?
Another video plays. This one is of Sanders and the sick boy distorting their faces with one of those Snapchat filters Sanders loves so much. Their voices blend: "It's Luke Turner's Turn!"
The protective mom in me surfaces immediately, instincts sharpening. My son's face, his name, splashed across the internet without my knowledge or consent. And yet, the way his eyes shine with purpose, the genuine care in his expression as he looks at his new friend...
I straighten in my chair, forcing a wry smile. "Can you let me see the original one, the one that blew up?"
Hannah hits play, and the sound fills our little corner of the insurance office. The fluorescent light above my desk flickers as I bend closer to the screen, my entire focus narrowing to the small rectangle in her hand.
"Hi, I'm Sanders Beamer," my son's voice rings out, clear and strong, that little Southern lilt he gets when he's excited. "And this is my new friend, Luke Turner."
My heart pounds against my ribs. There he is, my boy. His cheeks are flushed pink, eyes bright with that earnest determination I know so well.
But it's the child beside him that makes my breath catch. Thin, almost translucent skin stretched over hollow cheeks. His little lips are dry, and a plastic tube snakes from beneath his sleeve.
"Luke needs a kidney transplant," Sanders continues, his hand resting casually on Luke's shoulder like they've been friends for years. "He's next on the list for Duke, but his mom can't afford to stay in Durham for his recovery."
Luke nods, a crooked half-smile revealing slightly yellowed teeth. "I've been on dialysis for almost a year." His voice is softer than Sanders', but surprisingly steady. "Four days a week, three hours each time."
Sanders leans forward, suddenly intense. "He shouldn't have to be stuck to machines four days a week." The conviction in his voice forces a lump in my throat and tears to well in my eyes. God, he sounds like me when I'm fighting with the insurance company over a client's claim.
"So we're going to use the #SaveChristmas challenge to help," Sanders grins, confidence radiating through the screen.
"Every dollar helps Luke's family afford the housing they need.
" His face splits into that goofy smile that melts me every time.
"Use the hashtags #GetLuke2Duke and #ItsLukeTurnersTurn! "
The video ends with both boys flashing peace signs, Luke's thin arm trembling slightly with the effort.
I swallow hard, the sound of my own pulse thundering in my ears. My throat tightens with a tangle of emotions I can't sort through. All at once, I have fierce pride in my son's compassion and terror at his vulnerability.
"Oh my God," I whisper, fingers pressed against my lips. "He really did it."
"Your son is really something else." Hannah's face glows blue in the light of her screen as her thumbs swipe up, up, up through an endless river of comments. "I've never seen anything blow up this fast in our town."
A strange heaviness settles in my lungs. Pride and panic tangle together, making it hard to breathe.
"Look at these comments!" Hannah turns her phone toward me, her enthusiasm oblivious to my inner turmoil. "This one says, 'That little boy made me cry into my coffee this morning.' And this lady made a stitch video, adding her own donation."
The office fades around me as Hannah scrolls through dozens, hundreds of reactions. People I've never met, crying over my son. Strangers making their own videos, pledging money, sharing his face.
"Oh my God, look at this one!" Kayla squeals, bouncing in her seat. "Children's Miracle Network just commented! They want to boost the fundraiser."
My fingers go numb against the desk edge. "What?"
"And someone's tagging Duke Children's Hospital. The actual hospital!" She leans closer, her voice dropping to an excited whisper. "Lane, this is big. Not just local-viral."
The room tilts slightly. On the screen, hashtags multiply like wildfire: #SaveChristmas #GetLuke2Duke #ItsLukeTurnersTurn. Sanders' face appears again and again in duets, reactions, and shares.
Sanders Beamer, nine years old, local hero.
The caption stares back at me, and for a moment, I don't recognize my own child. The Sanders I tucked in on Friday night has transformed overnight into someone public, someone who belongs partly to the world now.
"He's got such a good heart," Hannah sighs. "You must be so proud."
I am. The emotion swells in my chest, threatening to crack me open. He's everything I've tried to raise him to be—compassionate, brave, the kind of person who sees a problem and moves to fix it instead of looking away.
But beneath that pride lurks something darker. Strangers know my son's name now. His face. Where he lives. The school emblem is visible on his hoodie in that first video. My fingers curl reflexively, the mother-bear instinct rising fierce and sudden.
My phone vibrates on the desk, jarring me from the spiral. Woody's name flashes on the screen, and suddenly the office feels too small, the air too thick. I silence it, needing privacy to talk to him.
"I need a minute." The words come out strained as I push back my chair. "Client call."
Hannah nods absently, already captivated by her phone, and walks out, her face buried.
I shut my office door with a sharp click and lean against my desk, my phone clutched in my sweating palm. My reflection in the half-drawn blinds looks pale, wild-eyed. Sanders' face floats in my mind. He's blissfully earnest, hopeful, completely unaware of the hurricane he's unleashed.
I open my call log and click on the most recent. Woody Beamer in red. I press call and raise the phone to my ear, my hand shaking slightly.
It rings once. Twice. Then—
"Hey. Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all morning."
His voice sounds casual, relaxed. Like it's any other morning. Like, our son isn't suddenly internet famous while I'm learning about it from the office receptionist.
"You want to tell me why our son is trending on TikTok?" The words come out sharper than I intend, slicing through the pretense of civility we normally maintain.
Silence stretches between us. "Lane, I was just as surprised as you. I just found out this morning when he woke me up to show me what he'd done."
His nonchalant, what-are-we-going-to-do reaction lands like a stone in my gut. How did our nine-year-old create a viral sensation without his father knowing? What the hell kind of supervision does he have at his father's house?
"Oh my god." I push off the desk and pace the three steps my tiny office allows. "You left him alone long enough to make a viral video about another child's kidney transplant, and you didn't even notice?"
"I didn't—that's not—" He stumbles over his words, a rarity for Woody, whose surgical precision usually extends to his speech.
"Lane, slow down. I don't micromanage his every living second.
He's nine, not three. And he's more adept at the internet than me.
He probably makes these things in his sleep. "
"Who is this kid?" Each word emerges clipped, precise. "He was in the hospital, so you brought him there? I thought you were off?"
"There was an emergency."
"Of course there was. Hell, there's even a video of you explaining what kidney failure is. Don't play dumb with me, Woody."
"You need to turn it down. Yes, I brought him to the hospital for a few hours on Saturday.
Sanders just met him when I had an emergency surgery.
They were messing around on the phone as far as I knew.
It wasn't until this morning that I found out they made these videos.
And, yes, I did make my own for him at his request this morning.
Jesus. You act like I gave him a weapon and told him to play Russian Roulette. "
"Woody, our son, is out there for the world to see!" My voice rises despite my effort to control it. The copy machine hums through the thin wall, a steady counterpoint to my racing heartbeat. "We are supposed to protect him."
"That's—" He falls silent, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair, the way he always does when blindsided. “Again, Lane, kids make videos all the time. I didn’t know this one would take off."
The admission fuels something hot and fierce in my chest. "Of course you didn't. Because you weren't paying attention. Again."
"That's not fair. Mrs. Henderson was crashing—"
"Do you have any idea what this means?" I cut him off, the old resentment rising like bile. "Our son's face, his name, his school, it's all out there now. For anyone to see."
The silence stretches between us, taut with unsaid words.
His silence stretches one beat too long, and that single moment tells me everything I need to know. Once again, we’re on different planets.