Dr. Kapoor moves to leave, assuming that this final statement is enough to make me understand the severity of my situation. I get it. In many ways, I’m worse off than I was before the transplant.

“Get some rest, Andre. Right now, that’s all you need to focus on.”

Thirty

School is out of the question, but I’m not worried about that right now. Mom and Dad aren’t either. They’re back to worrying about my health. Which is good for me.

Now I have bigger problems to deal with. Well, two bigger problems.

The pain is gone within the first three days. But my eagerness to get up and get moving—to be doing something—makes me strain my muscles, forcing my parents to remind me that staying in bed wasn’t just a suggestion.

Lying here, doing nothing, is against my nature. There are so many things I should be doing right now, but my body has other plans. Sit. Wait. And recover.

That’s all it’s been doing for almost a year. Waiting. Hoping. Pining.

When do I get to take charge of my own life? When do I get to be in control of my future?

And I can’t stop thinking about my last meeting with Michael. Michael, who loved life and music and wanted to fight for gay rights. For all I know, he could be dead. I guess I could try to find him, see what happened to him. But I can’t bring myself to do it, to know what outcome I might have caused.

But maybe I could change things. With just one more jump. Just ten more minutes.

A soft knock on my door turns my attention away from my own dark thoughts. Mom pushes her head in. “How are you feeling?”

I shrug. “Fine,” I say, sitting up. My abs hurt far less than before. I can walk around and do most things by myself. “Wish I could eat some solid food, though.”

“Next week,” she promises, slipping in. “Then you can have whatever you want.”

“You know the problem is with my liver, right? Not my stomach? I didn’t have stomach cancer.”

“I know what type of cancer my son had, Andre,” Mom quips back.

“And trust me, so do I. Considering I’m the one who lived with it and have a body that might be worse off for it.”

She lets out a frustrated sigh and takes in a deep breath. She pauses, looking anywhere but at me. I know she feels tense; I feel it too. It’s like it’s not the same between us anymore. Moms can detect when their children are different. I’m sure it’s some evolved sense of awareness or something. The usual suspects—drugs, alcohol, skipping school—those don’t apply here. She knows something is up, but she can’t place it, and she’ll never be able to.