Chapter 5
DAVE
“Black coffee for Dave,” the barista says, sliding a steaming cup of coffee toward the pick-up counter.
It’s my second cup of the day, and my brain is still in loading mode from memorizing these respiratory drug names for my upcoming exam.
Seriously, does the person who names these drugs get a bonus at their company?
Why are they so hard to pronounce? And spell? Sounding it out doesn’t even help.
Even though I want to pull my hair out every other day, I’m thankful that I was accepted into the respiratory therapy program.
When my grandpa—who we call Zayde—was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was twenty, we all thought that was the end.
But he was resilient; he didn’t let the cancer take him down.
He responded to treatment, and although he got sick more often, he was a fighter.
During the last two years of his life, he was in and out of the hospital often with respiratory illnesses.
If it wasn’t pneumonia, it was his chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, or COPD, acting up.
The respiratory therapists at the hospital were the reason I decided to go into this program.
It wasn’t only a way to honor my Zayde, but also to help someone else’s version of Zayde.
I’m thankful my time has been preoccupied with rotations and exams since all my spare time keeps reverting back to Sara, and I’m starting to think she blocked me on her DoorDash app.
How do I know? Well, call it being a good neighbor and not a stalker.
And technically, I was on neighborhood watch duty for a week, per Sue.
Which means it was totally valid that I checked in to see deliveries at her doorstep.
I’m walking back toward my corner of the coffee shop, which I’ve commandeered since they opened at seven this morning, when my phone buzzes. As if the universe heard me thinking about her, a DoorDash delivery request pops up—from her.
I accept the request and scan her list for today. Flu medicine, can of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and electrolyte drinks.
My brain screams: She’s sick. She needs me.
Without a second thought, I know exactly what I need to do. With a short window before I get dinged for not delivering on time, I pack up my bags and head home.
Thirty minutes later, the smell of chicken and herbs floats through my kitchen, reminding me of time with my grandmother, Bubbe.
She used to make me chicken soup with matzo balls whenever I was under the weather.
When Zayde’s vision worsened, and he was no longer able to drive her to the market, I would make grocery trips with her, and we would come home to cook all kinds of dishes.
Anytime I cook her recipes, it’s like she’s standing right next to me, guiding me.
Ladling soup and matzo balls into a container, I set it aside to cool while I gather all the other items necessary for her recovery. Using an old picnic basket I have stored in the garage, I pack it with the flu medicines, tissues, cough drops, Tylenol and a six-pack of BODYARMOR.
The soup isn’t part of her order. It’s definitely past borderline overstepping, but I can picture her opening the basket, finding it, and smiling. And something about being the person who puts a smile on her face causes me to throw caution to the wind.
Honestly, she might report me.
But fuck it.
I open the delivery app. I see I have ten minutes left before I’m due to deliver. I hit the “cancel order” button and pray this time she really won’t call the police on me.