The nurses later filled in the pieces Katie did not need to say. Her illness had moved beyond treatments and timelines that offered hope; now it was measured in comfort and days rather than cures and years. Her parents, young and unprepared, had been crushed by the weight of watching their child fade. Fear had driven them away, and paperwork had made it official. Katie, however, still believed in their return, still watched the door each evening, still listened for footsteps that never came. That night, Big John made a choice he could not fully explain even to himself. He pulled a chair close to her bed and stayed. He draped his heavy jacket over her legs, the leather absurdly oversized, and hummed old road songs his mother used to sing when storms rattled their childhood windows. He felt the vibration of the machines beneath his palms and the warmth of her small hand in his, and somewhere down the hall his brother took his final breath without him there. When dawn crept in through the blinds, Big John did not regret where he had been. Katie whispered that her biggest fear was not dying, but waking up alone in the dark. He promised her she wouldn’t, the words leaving his mouth before he could consider their weight. Promises, he knew, were dangerous things. Still, as the sun rose, he stepped into the hallway, pulled out his phone, and began calling everyone he trusted to understand what that promise meant.
