On Protocol...

A wide bed dominates the center of the room. A large widow fills the northern wall. The shades are drawn. Television and VCR comfortably visible from the bed. The credit roll to the theme of the latest James Bond video release.

The figure in the bed lay in clam repose. His skin pale against the snow white sheets. His eyes, half closed, scan the screen. His head rests upon a cloud of pillows. Brown hair, thin-to-balding in places, mussed from several hours in bed. He mutes the sound.

He is thinking of the past. Last week he’d been out dining at Burt & Jacks with some family and close friends. He’d argued the merits of Manhattan vs. New England chowder. Discussed Trump’s newest acquisition with his father. He’d even made plans for a trip with some friends in the fall.

He’s an active person. A doer. Enjoys the outdoors. Loves good food. Always up for a party or a hand of poker. He’s never one for sitting still or quiet at all. He worships money and power. He’s the type they call “a mover and a shaker”. Or he will be. Someday. That much, he knows.

Why only yesterday he’d spent the morning in consultation with the Chief of Staff and the Chief of Surgery. He’d damned the protocol to hell and back. He’d stormed from the office, past the nurses’ station and stomped down the hall.

The head nurse had smiled sadly. He is one of the best, she’d thought. He can handle a needle as if he were born with it in his hands. He can find veins faster than anyone in the hospital. She should know, she’d reminded herself. She’d taught him how. For eight years she had helped him through it all.

He turned the TV off. The light in the room was graying with the setting sun. James sat up in bed. Just a few more hours left, he reminds himself. Tomorrow morning I’ll be home. He leans back and adjusts the IV to a more comfortable position. He sighs and rewinds the tape.

He’s fourteen.

He has leukemia.