The nurse spun around and marched into the corridor where Peyton and his mother stood. She stopped when she saw them. Peyton expected her to bark them out of the hospital, but instead she took his mother’s hand and said, “Oh, Katydid.” Peyton’s mother fell sobbing into the nurse’s sympathetic embrace, leaving him to wonder whether he really knew his own parents at all.

When his mother finally collected herself, she opened her purse and handed the nurse a white envelope. “He gave me his power of attorney before he shipped out,” she said.

The nurse nodded. “Well and good. Come with me.”

Peyton could only follow behind, as his mother and the nurse seemed to forget he was there. Only when the two women entered a conference room and the nurse turned to close the door did she notice that a teenage boy was trailing them.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

Peyton’s mother looked surprised to see him standing there. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry!” she said, taking him by the hand and pulling him into the conference room. “Ida, this is our son, Peyton. Sweetheart, this is my dear friend, Nurse Ida Buck.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Peyton said.

“I’m pleased to meet you too. Now look after your mama or you’ll have me to deal with—understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nurse Buck left them alone in the windowless conference room, closing the door behind her. Peyton’s mother took a seat and patted the chair next to her. “Come and sit down, honey.”

He sat beside her and wondered what he should be doing as she blotted her eyes with a tissue and took one deep breath after another. He had never seen his mother like this. Peyton’s father used to tell her she was like a Roman candle—small but full of fire. Right now his mother seemed small, alright. But there was no fire, at least none Peyton could see. She looked like someone in dire need of protection, but her protector had ridden a bourbon bottle into a tree and was now himself helpless, lying unconscious on a gurney somewhere down one of these aimless corridors.

She jumped slightly when the door opened and Nurse Buck ushered a doctor in. “Mrs. Cabot, I’m Doctor Crenshaw. I’m head of neurology here at the hospital.”

“Thank you so much for taking care of Marshall,” his mother said as Nurse Buck made her exit. “This is our son, Peyton.”

“I understand you have your husband’s power of attorney, so you needn’t worry about interference from anyone else. I don’t have to tell you it’s serious . . .”

Peyton was aware of sound coming from the doctor’s mouth, but he couldn’t distinguish the words swirling out. He had the sense of being unplugged, still taking up space and filling a chair, but unable to think or speak or feel.

He found himself staring at the doctor’s wristwatch, which looked very old and expensive. Had it belonged to his father? Maybe the dad was also a doctor. Was the watch a gift from father to son—a passing of the torch, a reward for footsteps followed?