The lukewarm water sputtered from the showerhead, more a trickle than a proper stream. Jack tilted his face upward, letting it wash away the remnants of another restless night. The pipes groaned—a familiar complaint in their aging apartment—as he twisted the knob shut.
Steam curled around his lean frame while his mind drifted back to the hospital room. His mother's face, pale against the stark white pillowcase. The mechanical beep of monitors. The antiseptic smell that couldn't quite mask the underlying scent of sickness.
"Damn it," he muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes.
The doctors had used words like "acute respiratory distress" and "waiting for test results," but Jack had seen the concern beneath their professional veneer. Three days now, and Eliza wasn't getting better.
He toweled off roughly, the threadbare cotton scratching against his skin. The bathroom mirror, clouded with condensation, offered a blurry reflection of his exhausted face. Jack wiped a clear patch with his hand and stared at the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth that hadn't been there a week ago.
In his room, Jack pulled on his most presentable jeans—the ones with only a single frayed patch at the knee—and a clean t-shirt layered under his least-worn flannel. The hospital staff treated him differently when he looked put together, less like some delinquent kid and more like someone whose questions deserved answers.
His fingers brushed against the small scar above his right eyebrow as he pushed his damp hair back. The raised line of tissue served as a permanent reminder of the time he'd tried to fix the kitchen sink when he was ten. His mom had rushed him to the emergency room, apologizing the whole way for not being able to afford a plumber.
Jack had never minded stepping up—fixing things, working odd jobs, making sure bills got paid when his mom's cashier job at the grocery store didn't stretch far enough. That's what family did. But this—her lying in that hospital bed with tubes and wires—this he couldn't fix with duct tape and determination.
He grabbed his worn backpack, stuffing in a paperback he'd never get around to reading and the half-completed homework due three days ago. School seemed pointless with his mom sick, but the last thing he needed was a truancy officer showing up.
The kitchen clock read 6:47 AM. Early enough to swing by the hospital before first period. Maybe today they'd have answers. Maybe today she'd be sitting up, color returned to her cheeks, ready to come home.
Jack pocketed his house key and the twenty dollars he'd been saving for emergency bus fare. He'd have to skip lunch again, but that was nothing new.
Outside, the early morning air carried the mixed scents of the city—exhaust fumes, someone's breakfast cooking, the lingering dampness from last night's rain. The sky hung gray and heavy, threatening another downpour.
As he locked the apartment door, Mrs. Hernandez from next door emerged with her recycling.
"How is your mother today, Jackson?" Her weathered face creased with genuine concern.
"Going to find out now." He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks for asking, Mrs. H."
"I lit a candle for her. And there's a container of my pozole in your refrigerator. You must eat, even with worry."
Jack's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Thanks. That's... that's really nice of you."
She patted his arm before shuffling back to her apartment, leaving Jack to blink rapidly as he headed toward the stairwell. Small kindnesses sometimes hit harder than cruelty.
Jack caught the 7:05 bus heading downtown, squeezing into the last empty seat beside an elderly man dozing against the window. The bus lurched forward, its ancient suspension groaning with each pothole. Outside, Ashton slowly awakened—convenience store clerks flipping signs from CLOSED to OPEN, early shift workers trudging to bus stops, a homeless man pushing a cart filled with aluminum cans.
The twenty in his pocket felt heavy. That money had been earmarked for his mom's prescription refill next week. Jack stared at his reflection in the grimy window, his features blending with the passing storefronts. Four more stops to Ashton General.
The hospital came into view—a weathered five-story building with a facade that hadn't been updated since the seventies. Jack pulled the stop request cord and shouldered his backpack, mumbling an apology as he squeezed past the now-awake elderly man.
The automatic doors wheezed open, releasing a blast of air-conditioned antiseptic smell. Jack's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as he made his way past the information desk, nodding at the volunteer who recognized him from his daily visits. The elevator doors were closing when he reached them, and he thrust his arm between them, triggering the safety mechanism.
"Sorry," he muttered to the annoyed-looking nurse inside.
"Fourth floor?" she asked, finger hovering over the already-lit button.
"Yeah."
The nurse studied him. "You're Eliza Reeves' boy, aren't you?"
Jack's head snapped up. "Is she okay? Did something happen?"
"Dr. Patel was looking for you. Said to send you to his office if I saw you."
The elevator seemed to crawl between floors. Jack's heart hammered against his ribs. Doctors didn't usually want to talk to family members in their offices unless—
No. He wouldn't go there.
The doors finally opened, and Jack bolted out, nearly colliding with an orderly pushing an empty wheelchair.
"Whoa, slow down, kid," the orderly called after him.
Jack didn't slow down. He rounded the corner to the oncology wing, scanning the hallway for Dr. Patel. Instead, his eyes landed on his mother's room. The door stood open, and inside—
His mother sat propped up against pillows, awake. Her thin face brightened when she saw him.
"Jack," she called, her voice weaker than normal but unmistakably alive.
He crossed the threshold in three long strides. "Mom! You're awake. How—when—"
"Early this morning." She reached for his hand, her fingers cool against his palm. "The new medication seems to be helping with the inflammation."
Jack sank into the chair beside her bed, relief washing over him in dizzying waves. Up close, he could see she was still too pale, still too thin, but her eyes were clear and focused for the first time in days.
"Dr. Patel's looking for me," he said. "The nurse in the elevator told me."
Something flickered across Eliza's face—hesitation, maybe even fear.
"Yes, we need to talk to him together." She squeezed his hand. "He has the results of my latest tests."
"And?" Jack leaned forward, studying her face for clues.
Eliza's free hand smoothed the thin hospital blanket. "It's complicated, sweetheart. The cancer has... progressed further than they initially thought."
The relief that had flooded through him moments ago drained away. "What does that mean? There are other treatments, right? Different medications?"
A gentle knock interrupted them. Dr. Patel stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, his expression professionally neutral.
"Jackson, good. I was hoping to catch you before school." He entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Your mother and I have been discussing options."
Jack looked between them, suddenly aware that whatever came next would change everything.