Chapter 2: A Son’s Desperate Prayer

My son came to get me. Seeing the scene, he lost it, running into the ring, crying as he cradled my head. “Dad, what’s wrong? Let’s stop fighting. Let’s go home!”

His little arms wrapped around my neck, voice trembling. “Please, Dad, let’s just go home. I’ll help you, I promise.” The crowd jeered, but he didn’t care.

He hoisted my body. Somehow, he managed to run out with me.

He was just a kid, but adrenaline made him strong. He staggered under my weight, face red with effort, determined to save me.

“Doctor! Please help my dad!”

He burst through the hospital doors, screaming for help. His voice was raw with panic.

At the hospital entrance, Mason’s voice trembled as he dragged me inside.

Rain soaked through his clothes, plastering his hair to his forehead. He slipped on the slick floor, but never let go of me.

Blood mixed with rainwater, leaving dark red smears across the floor. Someone gasped.

Nurses gasped, rushing over. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and heavy.

Doctors rushed over, checking me as fast as they could.

A flurry of hands—stethoscopes, needles, frantic shouts. Mason stood back, eyes wide with fear.

“No blood pressure, oxygen saturation dropping, pupils dilated…” The words blurred together, a harsh background buzz.

Their voices grew grim. One nurse pressed a hand to Mason’s shoulder, trying to shield him from the worst of it.

A doctor spoke with a heavy heart. “Kid, your dad probably isn’t going to make it. You should…”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Mason just stared, refusing to accept it.

My son looked up, eyes wide, voice trembling. “What do you mean, ‘not going to make it’? My dad said he never fails!”

He puffed out his chest, trying to be brave. “My dad’s amazing! He’s a hero! He’s just tired and sleeping. If you give him a shot, he’ll wake up.”

He pleaded, his voice cracking, as if sheer willpower could bring me back.

He suddenly remembered, pulling out his smartwatch. His voice shook.

“Doctor, I have money! Please help my dad!”

His fingers fumbled with the screen, rainwater and tears smudging the glass. He pressed it toward the doctor, desperate.

The screen was streaked with rain. He wiped it over and over with his sleeve, but couldn’t unlock it, tears welling up in his eyes. “Look, Miss Doctor! Yesterday I collected so many bottles, I made three dollars! I’ll give it all to you!”

His voice was so small, so hopeful. The doctor’s eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head, helpless.

The doctor sighed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “Sweetheart, hospitals save lives, but we can’t save someone who’s already gone.”

She crouched down, meeting his gaze. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. We did everything we could.”

My son acted as if he hadn’t heard, desperately fiddling with his watch—his last hope.

He tapped and swiped, biting his lip until it bled, refusing to give up.

The screen finally lit up. But the balance showed zero.

He froze. Swiped at the screen several times before suddenly remembering and calling Savannah.

“Mom.”

His thumb shook as he hit the call button, hope flickering in his eyes.

“Where’s my money? Dad’s sick.”

He tried to keep his voice steady. But it trembled with fear.

On the other end, Savannah’s laugh rang out. Light and silvery.

She sounded like she was at a party, music and laughter in the background. “Sick? Then let him die already!”

“That loser lost the fight and cost me a fortune! I haven’t even settled the score with him yet!”

Her words dripped with venom. Mason’s hand clenched around the phone.

My son was at a loss. Stung by her ridicule.

He stammered, “B-but… my money?”

She sounded impatient. “I used it for a new manicure. I spent it, got it? Are you still going to whine?”

She scoffed, like he was an inconvenience. “Don’t start crying. I can’t deal with this right now.”

My son stood there, stunned. Unable to believe it.

He looked at the phone as if it might explain everything. “Mom, what are you saying?”

“Why didn’t you say anything before taking my money?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “I saved that up from collecting bottles. I was going to use it to save Dad!”

There was a brief pause on the other end. Then her tone turned angry.

She snapped, “What’s yours and what’s mine? I gave birth to you—what’s the big deal if I use your money? Why are you so petty, just like your useless father?”

She hung up without another word.

The doctor shook her head and called for an orderly. “We have a body here. Please move him to the morgue.”

She tried to be gentle, but her voice was tired. The world moved on, uncaring.

“No! Don’t touch my dad!”

Suddenly, my son threw himself over me, blocking anyone from coming near. “Nobody’s allowed to touch my dad!”

He wrapped himself around me, glaring at anyone who came close, fierce as a lion cub.

He burst forth with surprising strength, dragging me off the bed and onto a wheelchair. Before the orderlies arrived, he bolted out of the hospital, running for three blocks before finally letting out a long sigh of relief.

His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat and rain mixing on his brow. He looked around, making sure no one was following.

“Dad, are you cold?”

He knelt beside me, voice trembling. “I’ll protect you, just like you always protected me!”

The rain came down harder. No one answered.

He shivered, but kept talking, hoping I’d respond. The city lights flickered in the distance, cold and uncaring.

My son found a spot under a bridge, settling me in a dry corner. He took off his jacket and draped it over me, but it was too small, barely covering my chest.

He fussed over me, tucking the edges in, trying to make me comfortable. His breath fogged in the chilly air.

Thinking for a moment, he took off his T-shirt, wrung out the water, and covered my legs.

Goosebumps rose on his arms, but he didn’t complain. He just wanted me to be warm.

“Dad, are you thirsty? I’ll go get you some water.”

He glanced around, searching for anything that could help. His determination was heartbreaking.

He found a plastic bag outside the bridge, spent ages collecting rainwater, and finally brought a small handful back. Kneeling at my side, he gently pried open my mouth. “Dad, have some water.”

He cupped my chin, careful not to spill a drop. “If you drink some water, you’ll get better.”

He whispered it like a prayer, hope shining in his eyes.

The rainwater dribbled from the corner of my mouth, mixing with blood and staining his palm red.

He stared at me for a long time. Then suddenly lay across my chest, sobbing.

His small body shook with each breath, tears soaking my shirt. He clung to me like a lifeline.

“Dad, why won’t you talk after drinking the water?”

He nudged my shoulder, voice cracking. “Dad, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”

“The thunder’s so loud, I’m really scared. You never let me be scared before!”

He pressed his face into my chest, muffling his sobs. The storm raged on outside, but he only had eyes for me.

He clung to me, shaking me desperately—so much that even my spirit couldn’t help but tremble.

I watched helplessly, wishing I could hold him, whisper that everything would be okay.

But I was already dead. I couldn’t touch anything. All I could do was watch as my son bit his lip and stood up.

The realization hit me hard. I was powerless, just a ghost in his world.

“Dad, I’m going to find Mom right now!”

He wiped his face, determination hardening his features. “If Mom comes, she’ll fix everything!”

“I promise, I’ll get you into the best hospital and find the best doctors!”

He straightened his shoulders, clinging to hope like a drowning man to a raft.

My spirit followed my son back home.

I drifted behind him, invisible and weightless, praying he’d find some kindness on the other side of that door.