“Here,” Ronny said, and trimmed the ends from the stems while Mr. Nickelsen filled the vase. When they were done and the vase was ready to present, Mr. Nickelsen squared his shoulders and marched to the hospital bed. By then she had come inside again, to rest out of the sun. He stood at her side with the determined posture of a soldier, presenting the vase with a grim look, as if he expected wind to knock him down. Mrs. Nickelsen cried out in shock and reached up to him. He blushed deeply red. The moment felt raw and naked in some way. Ronny returned quickly to the kitchen, feeling as if he should not watch.

While the dishwasher was running Ronny made chicken broth, thinking Mrs. Nickelsen might be able to drink it. Ben cleaned the adjacent half-bathroom, which smelled of vomit and needed a round of bleach before the odor went away. Outside Mr. Nickelsen was starting the charcoal for grilling. They were quiet, working near one another, the sound of the television news providing an easy background. Something funny about Jimmy Carter’s mother, Miss Lillian. When it was ready, Ronny took a cup of the soup to Mrs. Nickelsen to taste. She sipped it and made a face. “Well, it’s pretty good I guess. I guess you can cook.”

She had a slightly petulant expression, and he wondered whether she wished he would leave her alone, or whether she might be in pain. After a moment she took another sip and said, with more of a smile, “I think I really might be able to eat that if you put a little rice in it.”

“I’m glad.”

“I ought to drink a can of that milky mess, too, to make the doctors happy.”

“You do whatever you want to,” said Ben, standing close again, so that Ronny felt his nearness.

“Thank you, son. I believe I will.”

“When do you need to take these pills?” Ben asked.

“I wrote it down somewhere,” she said, and found the note on the table next to her. “I’m so glad you all put this stuff where I can reach it. Oh, me.” She was shivering. Ben sat on the bed next to her. “Son, I never knew you to clean a bathroom unless I stood right over you.”

He blushed. “We just want to help.”

She looked at him. “That’s good. You’re growing up, looks like.” Her voice was almost peaceful. She turned to Ronny, with a bit of a smile, though she appeared more tired than before. “Did you boys tell Harley to get flowers?”

“No, ma’am.”

She laughed. “What in the world is going on with him? He never bought a flower in his life. But I appreciate it. He was so tickled with himself.”

Ben caught Ronny’s eye across the room at one point, after giving his mother the cup again to take a sip more of broth. Ronny could not have described all he saw in Ben’s eyes. Nothing soft or easy; maybe even more anger than before; but toward Ronny an admission, a yearning, even an edge of his own fear.