Her parents—Laura with the careful hands, David with the shoulders that used to carry drywall—had traded certainty for chances. They sold the car. They spent the savings. They learned the layout of the ICU the way other families learn cul‑de‑sacs and grocery aisles. They measured life by shift change and cafeteria hours, by the soft click of a badge on a glass door.

There was, however, one constant that did not obey schedules: Buddy.

He was six, all shepherd steadiness and thoughtful eyes. On Sophie’s fifth birthday, he had arrived with a red ribbon and a quiet dignity that made even the neighbors’ porch lights seem kinder. He learned the rhythm of her feet on the stairs, the scratch of her pencil when she drew, the way her giggle changed when she was truly happy. He learned patience outside a classroom door, a new kind of waiting.

When illness came, Buddy adjusted. The runs became vigils. The backyard became a front‑hallway watch post. He learned the beeps of appliances and the sound of a distant siren that meant his girl would be gone for a while.