I glanced in the direction of his father’s room.
Corbin followed my gaze, then immediately turned to his toy box and asked, “Do you want to play a game?”
Neither of us talked much at first. We just played
games. Our friendship formed in the simple way of
children. We played, then we spoke in grand
hypotheticals: What would you do if you had heat
vision? Do you think mermaids would communicate
better with mammals or reptiles? Then the questions
got a little meatier: What do you like about yourself?
Who knows you the best in the world? I don’t
remember exactly when we became friends. I know it
happened early. Being seen by a person I liked was
magical.
With every trip to Corbin’s house, I checked on his
father. Corbin riddled it out while I was still struggling
with how to explain it to him. When he asked me if I
was there for his dad, I nodded solemnly. I waited for
him to hate me, but he didn’t. He didn’t scream. He
didn’t blame me. He inspected his hands intensely, and
a single tear rolled down his cheek. And another. And
another. And then he drew and discarded.
“I’m dead,” Corbin whispered. He stared at his body, still lying peacefully in the bed. He pressed his forehead into his palm and let out a strained gurgle. His hand snapped to his mouth.
“Oh my god,” he yelped. “Oh my god, Mom.”