“Mom! LOOK!”
Micah almost knocked his soda into the row in front of us, pointing up at the enormous screen above the field.
Our ten-year-old’s last wish was a small one: one real football game, with his dad and me in the seats beside him.
I looked up.
There we were.
Danny on Micah’s left, me on his right, our son squeezed between us in his blue home jersey. He was grinning so wide that for one beautiful second he looked like any other kid in that stadium.
I waved.
Danny shot both hands over his head.
Micah screamed, “WE’RE FAMOUS!”
The people around us laughed and waved at the camera too.
I’d already taken more photos that afternoon than I could count, and still my hand went for my phone.
Then the announcer’s voice came over the speakers.
“Micah, we’re really glad you’re here with us today.”
My son stopped bouncing.
His face filled the giant screen, freckles and all.
“But there’s something about this trip you don’t know about.”
I glanced at Danny. He looked as lost as I felt.
“All three of you,” the announcer said, “turn around and look behind you.”
Everyone in our section started twisting around in their seats.
Micah’s hand closed around mine.
“What is it, Mom?”
“I don’t know, Captain.”
We turned.
A man was coming down the concrete steps toward us.
Danny went rigid beside me.
The color drained out of his face.
“Vince?”
Behind Vince came Marcus from the hospital, Micah’s beat-up plastic tabletop football game tucked under one arm.
A nurse from Micah’s floor followed, walking with a teenage patient named Tyler and Tyler’s mom.
Micah’s jaw dropped.
“No way.”
I watched his face. Whatever he’d pictured when the announcer told us to look behind us, it wasn’t this.
Then Marcus lifted the battered little game over his head like a trophy, and Micah started laughing so hard he shook.
