Peyton stared up at the white ceiling, thinking about his answer. “Yes, ma’am. But he shouldn’t have told you just yet. I don’t want to worry you.”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Don’t be upset with the chief. He just wants to make sure you know what you’re getting into—and that you’re prepared.”

Peyton was looking up at her, trying to read her face. “You don’t want me to go, do you?”

“Of course not,” she said, “for all kinds of reasons that would be hard to explain. Everybody in the family—everybody in Savannah, for that matter—they talk about your dad’s ride like it was some great adventure with no hardship whatsoever. But he went through a lot on that trip, Peyton. Most of it, he never shared with anybody but me. There’s more to that bike ride than pedaling, son. You’ll likely stir up some things about your daddy—and things about yourself—that could be painful out there all alone. Promise me you’ll think about it long and hard before you decide?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nurse Parsons came in. “He’s awake,” she said, motioning for them to follow her.

Peyton quickly sat up. He and his mother looked at each other in disbelief. He put his arm around her as they left the safety of the waiting room and followed the nurse through the double doors and back to his father’s room, where they stopped at the picture window. A nurse was beside the hospital bed, holding up three fingers. Peyton watched, reading his father’s lips as his mouth moved: three. The nurse gave him a big smile and a nod, then checked his IV before leaving the room.

“He’s doing just beautifully,” she said on her way to the nurses’ station.

“I don’t have to tell you that this part can be harder than the waiting,” Nurse Parsons said.

“Feel like I might dissolve into a puddle,” his mother answered.

Nurse Parsons laid a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “A nurse can always do what needs to be done. And you’re still a nurse.” She held the door open as they slowly walked into the room.

At first, Peyton’s father didn’t turn toward them. No doubt he thought they were just hospital staff, and he kept his gaze on the only window to the outside.

Peyton took a step back, just in case his parents needed a moment. His mother lightly touched his cheek with her hand, then stepped closer to the bed, reached down, and took his father’s hand.

“Marshall?” she said.

He turned to look at her, blankly at first, but then he squinted slightly until a smile—ever so slight—curled on his lips, and he said simply, “Hoppy.” It was his pet name for her, bestowed when he’d watched her decorate for their first Christmas together on Tybee and said she was hopping all over the house like a rabbit. Peyton hadn’t heard him use it since he came home from the war.

Now she was crying, kissing his hand over and over, as if she were trying with all her might to get control of herself.