“Yeah,” my mom says. “He hates hospitals, but we got him there for that.”

She continues to lead him down the hallway of my awkward years, and I follow.

“Is that you?” Brendan laughs, pointing to the picture on the wall with my worst orthodontia situation.

“Shut up,” I grumble. The closer we get to my dad’s door, the more sick to my stomach I feel.

“Mr. Myles?” Brendan says as we step into the warmth of my dad’s room. He likes the heat turned up to sauna levels, which makes the pee smell more noticeable, but I guess one polite thing the disease does is dull the sense of smell. “I’m here with Beth Israel Volun-cheers. We tell jokes and deliver beverages.” His face brightens. “Oh, hey there. I remember seeing you a few months ago.” He looks between me and my dad. “I didn’t know this was your dad!”

I cross my arms and nod, my ears feeling very hot, probably because of the thermostat setting and nothing else. I watch Brendan’s face and wait for him to laugh or say something or I don’t know what exactly.

“How are you feeling?” Brendan looks at my dad earnestly. He makes direct eye contact with him and uses his normal voice, unlike some of the aides who get cheerful and animated in a nauseating way, like Dad’s a kid or something.

“I feel fine,” my dad says sternly. He rolls up his pant leg and shows Brendan the scar. “I’m recovering pretty well, just surgery on my knee from an old motorcycle accident.” The muscles of his face tighten into a smile. “But I could always use something to laugh about.”

“Here to serve,” Brendan says. My dad presses the button on the bed, and it sits him upright slowly. Brendan hands him one of the cups of cocoa, but then sets it on the table that’s attached to the bed as he realizes Dad won’t be able to hold it.

“Cham and I go to the same school,” Brendan offers. “We have English class together, but it’s more of a think-deeply-about-your-life course because our teacher likes philosophy.”

“Oh.” My dad frowns. “In my riding days, I tried to read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but it put me to sleep.”

Brendan smiles. “Yeah, it’s not something I’m always in the mood for. We talk a lot about life and death and—”

“Actually, Brendan,” I interrupt, “I need to ask you something about the homework. Can you come here for a sec, and then you can get back to your cheering?”

“Er—” he says. I pull him into the hall.

“Look, I don’t know what a volun-cheer is, but you need to go.”

“Uh, I can’t really—” he says tentatively, and I sigh. I didn’t really expect him to leave.

“Fine, but please don’t mention this at school.” I look back at the closed door, then think better of it. “Let’s go to the kitchen, okay?”

“I wouldn’t bring up your dad’s patella at—”