He figured the trip would take less than an hour, but he was wrong—it took him nearly three. The sun was setting when he reached the Norman city limits. The parking lot lights glowed in the clear night as he rode up, dropped his bike by the front door, and staggered in.

The woman at the reception desk gave Desmond Agnes’s room number. For the first time in his life, he rode an elevator. On the fourth floor, he walked slowly toward Agnes’s room, afraid of what he’d see.

The door was closed. He pushed the handle, let the thick wooden door creak open. The lights were dim inside. Agnes lay on her side, machines beeping softly around her.

She turned at the sound of the door, saw Desmond. A smile crossed her lips, and tears filled her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here, Desmond.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. He just walked into the room, up to her bed, and held out his small hand, which she took.

“Why didn’t you…” He didn’t complete the sentence, because he had no idea what he intended to ask. He hadn’t thought this part out. In his mind, he had never accepted what the postman had said. He’d expected to arrive and learn that it had all been a mistake.

She exhaled. “I was going to tell you I was moving away. I didn’t want you to know I was sick, didn’t want this to be your last memory of me.”

Desmond studied his feet.

“Did your uncle bring you?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Surely you didn’t ride your bike.”

She apparently took his silence for confirmation.

“Desmond,” she said slowly. “That was very dangerous. Where’s your uncle?”

“On the rigs. Won’t be back for a few days.”

A nurse appeared in the open doorway.

“Do you need anything, Miss Andrews?”

“Yes, dear. Some blankets for my nephew. He’ll be spending the night. And, this may be a tall order, but I wonder if there are any children’s books in the hospital?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring some.”

That night, Agnes read to Desmond for the last time. It was two a.m. when he drifted off to sleep in the reclining chair by the window.

In the morning, Agnes made him promise never to return, that it was too dangerous and that she would only grow sicker.

“Those are my wishes, Desmond. Will you respect them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pedaled his bike slower on the return, the wind no longer in his sails. Why did everyone he cared about die? And the people he hated—meaning his uncle—live? Life was unfair. The world was cruel.

It was midday when Desmond got home. His mouth went dry when he saw his uncle drinking on the porch.

“Pretty bike, Des. Where’d you get it?”