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Bobby was dying. He had been since birth or at least as far back in his twelve years that he could remember. Leukemia. The hated “L” word. He’d been fighting it forever, but it’d finally won. His battle was almost over.
He turned his head, careful not to wake his mother who was curled up in the hospital bed with him. The nurses had stopped telling her it wasn’t allowed days ago. His father dozed in the chair, even in sleep he held his wife’s hand, sharing strength and sorrow. Ricky was curled up on their father’s lap, ten years old and never sick a day. His little brother was the complete opposite of him. It sucked that the kid had to spend Christmas in the hospital instead of playing in the snow and opening presents. Beth, his fifteen-year-old sister, slept in a chair near his
