I text his greeting to her without looking and close my eyes, leaning back, letting the rocking of the car soothe me.

My moment of darkness and quiet only lasts half a minute before my phone vibrates again.

Tell him hi back.

Also tell him he looked hot in that pic he posted last week.

I’m not telling my father my best friend thinks he’s hot. There must be a law against that.

Pretty sure there isn’t.

Aren’t you gay, anyway?

Sexuality, just like gender, is a construct. Don’t be a prude.

Don’t have the hots for my dad.

I’ll consider it. If you do one thing for me.

This sounds dangerous and like something I’m going to regret.

How are you REALLY feeling?

It’s so easy to type out the words I’m fine, because that’s not actually a lie and doesn’t make my chest feel tight with guilt. I am fine, in the most basic, dictionary definition of the word. I’m one of the lucky ones. Dr. Moore reminded me of that every time we came for an appointment.

The things I’m feeling—the hunger, the soreness, the mental exhaustion of listening to my parents obsess over my health—are good things. I should embrace them, not push against them.

Not everyone is as lucky as I am to have parents who can pay for a treatment that, even after insurance, cost us a fortune.

I’m lucky. Which is a weird thing to say. In most countries, my treatment would be free—or damn near free. In America, going into outrageous debt to save your life is considered “affordable care.”

We’re so lucky to live in the greatest country in the world.

But, right now, my focus isn’t on the economics of health care but on the dull pain I’ve had since we left Harte Hospital.

But if I told Isobel that, she’d obsessively worry. And my father would be even worse. Besides, it’s probably just a by-product of the transplant, right?

Right.

Somewhere in between the Here & Now and Fresh Air program shift on NPR, I fall asleep. I hear Dad attempt to close the door to the Prius as gently as possible, so as not to wake me. Sadly, he lacks any sort of grace.

“How did it go?” I hear Mom say.

“Well enough,” he says. “Andre’s tired. Which is to be expected. As long as he doesn’t start vomiting, he’s fine.”

My phone vibrates again, so I rise and scan an unreasonable number of messages from Isobel.

[25 minutes ago]

You didn’t answer me.

[22 minutes ago]

OMG, are you dead?

[17 minutes ago]

Wait, you never told me what you wanted me to say in your eulogy if you die.

[16 minutes ago]

Can I rap? PLEASE let me rap something.