Chapter Nineteen. Case

I didn't figure I'd ever be back at the St. James Medical Center after the solid month I spent there visiting Walker last fall, but I'm relieved to note the cloud of dread I used to feel walking to the pediatric ward has all but disappeared.

I'm sure it has to do with the fact I'm not coming here today to watch my best friend fade away. Instead, I'm here to visit a friend who is recovering from a bone marrow transplant. Ryder's a thirteen-year-old cancer patient who was in the hospital at the same time as Walker, recovering from an infection caused by his most recent bout of chemo. Their rooms were close, and sometimes when I stayed overnight with Walker and he'd be asleep, I'd stop in to find Ryder awake. Ryder's a massive rodeo fan, so we had lots to talk about. His parents called me this morning to ask if I'd come by and visit him while he's stuck in bed recovering.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't felt any trepidation about coming back, but I figure visiting someone who's sick isn't half as bad as being the actual sick one. Plus, I've been holding on to something that was Walker's, and I think it needs to go to Ryder.

I stop at the front desk and give my name and get a sticker with today's date in return. The friendly voice behind the glass asks me if I need directions, but I wave them off and make my way directly to the elevators. I ascend, and before long, a ding rings out and a recorded child's voice announces, "Seventh floor!" I swallow back the memory of how, toward the end, Walker would cringe at that voice. It's so cheerful. It's meant to make kids feel safer, but when you're a dying seventeen-year-old, it feels mocking.

Maybe I should fill out a comment card or something.

The doors open, and I'm greeted by a chorus of cheerful exclamations from the front desk. "Case! What a surprise!"

"Hey, Maggie, Donna, Craig." I nod at the older gentleman in his perpetual bow tie. "How're y'all?"

Good, goods and Can't complains are exchanged, and a moment later, I'm buzzed through the security doors. I reach the nurses' station to another round of smiles and friendly greetings. This time, they ask about Kerry and how bull riding is going. They ask if I'm away at school yet. One shy-looking younger nurse asks about Brody Gibson, and I make a note to give him shit about it later.

I visit for a few minutes, feeling a little weird about how not weird this is. It's been seven months since I was last here, and yet they are just as pleased to see me as if I were here yesterday. Eventually, I break away, promising to stop back before I leave, and I make my way to room 118. I knock on the door, and Ryder's mom startles before brightening from where she's been asleep in a plastic recliner at the foot of the bed.

"Case! Oh my goodness! Ryder." She shakes a blanket-covered foot gently. "Ry, look who it is!"

I school my features just in case before walking the rest of the way into the room. It's something I learned with Walker. No matter what you have going on in your own life, in your own headspace, you drop that shit at the door because they are already taking on enough on their own.

This time, though, I needn't have bothered.

"Bro!" I exclaim. "I don't even recognize you! Is that a Mohawk?"

Ryder runs a hand through his neon lengths and beams. "Mom and Dad said once my hair grew back, I could do whatever I wanted with it."

"His dad promised," his mom says wryly, "but it suits him."

I move closer and pull a chair from the wall to sit at the side of his bed. "It really does. I'm mad jealous. You look taller, too. Even sitting down. How is that possible? It hasn't been that long! You're like a whole-ass middle schooler now!"

Ryder's face flushes with the minor cuss, but I know he's loving it. The pediatric intensive care unit was pretty empty during the month he and Walker were here last fall, so Walker and I made it our mission to make sure Ryder always felt like one of the guys. That meant teaching him cuss words and all the right rodeo lingo.

"I know. Doc says if I keep up the good numbers, I might even go to school in the fall. Seventh grade."

"Ah." I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. "Seventh grade. I remember seventh grade. Lots of cute girls, if memory serves. And you know the ladies love a rebel. They're gonna be all over this." I wave my hand at his hair.

Ryder smiles and tells me more about his plans for after he's discharged, and his mom fills in the gaps about his treatments and how successful the surgery's been.

"Provided there's no infection," she tells me, "he could be home by the end of the month."

I shake my head. "Awesome, bro. I'm so impressed. You're kicking cancer's ass."

"I was thinking I might want to try some riding after I get better," he tells me. "Maybe learn some roping or"—he shrugs, his shoulders still bony in his gown—"even try to sit a bull."

I swallow the emotion threatening to ruin my careful composure. "Ryder, man. I've no doubt in my mind you can do whatever you dream up. You want to ride a bull? Or a horse? Or learn to rope a calf? Any of it—you bring your mom and dad and you come to my ranch, and it's on the house."

"Oh, you don't have to do—"

"On the house," I insist to his mom before turning to Ryder. "I have a friend, Winnie Sutton, who's the best barrel racer you've ever seen. She's working on training a couple of horses to race, and I'm sure she'd love someone to come out and test out her stock. You'd be doing us a favor if you're really serious about this."

Ryder's eyes flicker to his mom, who grins at him and then at me. "If the doctor agrees, we'll give you a call," she says.

"Speaking of rodeo," I tell Ryder, "I've been holding on to this for you and almost forgot all about it." I reach into my backpack. "So I'm glad your mom called."

I pull out the shiny gold buckle and pass it to him. "It was Walker's from his last rodeo. I'm not too proud to admit he handed me my ass to win it. Rubbed this buckle in my face for weeks. Wouldn't take it off. I'm positive he'd want you to have it. He thought the world of you and talked about you all the time. Always asking how you were. He'd be super stoked to see how well you're doing, and he'd choke over that haircut."

Ryder takes the buckle from my hands and holds it close to his face to read it. His eyes are bright and watery. "I can't take—"

"Please," I insist. "It's yours. At least until you can win your own."

At the challenge, his expression becomes fiercely determined, and while you can't ever know for sure, I feel deep down the little dude's gonna be okay.

I visit a while longer, telling them stories about some of the stupid stuff Walker and I got into over the years, until Ryder's eyes start to droop and a nurse pokes her head in to get lunch orders.

Ryder's mom walks me out of the room. She closes the door behind her for privacy, smoothing the wrinkles in her button-down and wrapping her cardigan around herself. It may be summer outside, but hospitals are always cold, no matter the season. "Thank you so much for coming by. I know you must be busy, but Ryder's been talking about you so much, and I thought a visit might break up the tedium of waiting to heal."

"Thanks for telling me he was here. Can I come back to visit, or would you rather me not?"

"Oh! If it's not too much."

"Not at all. This was good. Ryder looks strong. So much better than last fall, even."

"He is. Of course these things are never certain, but his team is very optimistic."

"Great. Good. Glad to hear it."

She puts a hand on my arm, and her look is maternal. "It's good to see you, Case. You seem to be doing okay?"

"I am."

"Don't think I didn't notice how you played off Ryder's questions about the Pbr."

I feel my face get warm, and I shift my weight. "Yeah, well…"

"I always thought you would be a good nurse or doctor," she presses on. "Something in the medical field."

That stops me in my tracks. "Really?"

She hums an affirmative. "You have a gift—a way about you. I've been in a lot of hospital rooms and doctors' offices in the last decade, and I've seen it all. A lot of people come in here and don't know how to act. They're awkward and too careful. They make patients restless. Or they pity the patients and make them feel miserable. But not you. You've always just been yourself. Toward Walker and Ryder, and I've talked with a few of the other parents and they've all said the same. During those weeks you spent here with your friend, you made an impact in a lot of young lives."

I clear my throat, trying to repress the surge of emotion. "I don't know what to say. Thank you, Mrs. Jones."

"Just something to think about. It takes a special person to come in here and take care of these kids day after day, riding out the inevitable storms with them."

I nod, my thoughts tripping over each other. "Yeah. Maybe… I'll definitely consider it. Thanks."

Someone is heading for us with a cart of lunches, so I let Mrs. Jones get back to her son. After a quick stop at the nurses' station, where I promise to bring some of Kerry's cookies with me next time, I leave.

Hours later, I'm still thinking over what Mrs. Jones said to me and remembering this one moment back when Walker was still alive. It was one of his last good nights, when he was lucid enough to hold a conversation—when he was still himself. Walker had looked terrible. A shadow of his former strong and wiry self. His eyes were watery and yellowed with jaundice, his skin was pasty and stretched thin over his bones. I'd just finished cleaning him up, and he said to me, "You know, you're not terrible at this taking-care-of-people thing."

"Shut up," I said, snorting.

"I'm serious. I never realized it before. You're kind of made for this."

"I have a strong stomach is all."

"It's more than that."

I don't know. Maybe it is more than that. Like when I talked to Winnie about being unflinching. That's what it all comes down to, right? I've always been good at school. Math and science come naturally to me. But I'd want direct contact with people. With kids, even. Pediatric patients. Nursing.

I nearly scoff. A "murse" is what my dad calls them. Male nurses. But I don't know. Nurses do all the hardest shit, really. Doctors would come in and out of Walker's room, holding their clipboards and checking the charts. They would read the numbers reported by the nurses and then skip out again. Not that doctors aren't extremely important. But nurses are the ones on the front lines.

"Riding out the storms," as Mrs. Jones said.

I think I'd like that. No. Scratch that. I think I'd fucking love it.

I wander down to the kitchen, still lost in my thoughts, and find myself sliding onto a stool while Kerry is elbow-deep in an uncooked chicken. Trisha Yearwood is playing softly over the Alexa speaker. Winnie and Kerry share a taste in music.

"Hey, kiddo," she says, not bothering to look up from where she's rubbing copious amounts of seasoning in between the skin and meat. "How was St. James?"

"Not as bad as I'd thought," I admit. I reach for a corn muffin, peeling away the paper wrapper and taking a bite. "Ryder looked great, and the doctor said his numbers were nice and healthy. They think he might even be discharged by the end of the month."

"Oh, that's great news," Kerry says, sounding relieved. "Did he like the buckle?"

"About shit his pants," I tell her with a smirk, and she shakes her head at my crassness. "He's interested in rodeo," I carry on. "I invited him out here to train with Winnie sometime."

"Not with you?"

I shrug a shoulder, popping the rest of the savory corn muffin in my mouth. Kerry puts jalape?o in her corn bread, and the spicy-and-sweet combination is heaven-sent. "I mean, yeah, sure, me, too. Unless I'm away at school."

Kerry stiffens, using her free shoulder to nudge her reading glasses back in place, right below her line of vision. She narrows her eyes at me. "Are you planning to go to school this fall?"

"I'm thinking about it."

Her soft features brighten. "Really? That's wonderful. Studying gen eds or what?"

"I don't know. Maybe nursing?"

"Oh, Case," she exhales. "You'd be a great nurse."

"You think so?" I ask, playing with the paper, smoothing it on the cool marble top. "You don't think it's, I don't know, kind of feminine? Not that I feel that way," I rush to assure her. "Just… you know what Junior'd say."

Kerry levels me with a look, plopping the whole chicken in a baking dish and stuffing a bunch of leafy, green stuff around it. She shoves it in the oven and moves to the sink to wash her hands. Then she turns back to me, drying them on a small towel.

"Yes. I know what your dad would say, and I'm sorry for it. But you're a grown man, Case. You can make your own choices—different choices, even—than your father would make, and while he may give you grief for those choices, in the end, it's you who has to live with them. So," she says with a small smile, the one that tells me she already knows what the answer will be. "Can you live with being a nurse?"

"I think I could."

"Then you should consider it."

I sit back. "I could be a nurse. A pediatric nurse."

Kerry beams at me, her eyes watery. "I can see that."

I can't believe how right it feels. More right than anything has felt in a long time. Which instantly fucks with my head, growing a pit in my stomach. For so long, I adopted a different kind of dream, and that future looks nothing like college and a nursing degree and working with kids. I stuff down the feeling and nod at Kerry. "Yeah. I think I'd like working with kids like Ryder." And Walker.

Is that shitty? Would Walker hate me for it? That instead of chasing the thrill of the arena for the rest of my life, I would take care of sick kids. Would he feel like I'm an insult to his memory? Would he feel like I've given up on him and our dream—his dream of a buckle?

I feel a hot flash of impatience at the last part. Because Walker's not here, and this is my life, not his. In the same breath, I can tell Winnie she needs to think of herself for once and not put aside her dreams for her siblings, and there I go doing the fucking opposite with regard to my dead best friend?

And there's the guilt.

Kerry hums to herself, ignorant of the storm inside of me. "Good. That's good, Case. You should check out the University of Texas. I hear they have an excellent nursing program, not to mention a nationally competitive rodeo team."

I force a grin. "You just happen to know that, huh?"

She flutters her hands at me dismissively, hiding a pleased expression.

I jump off my stool, feeling the need to get some fresh air and think. First, I round the island to give her a kiss on her cheek. "I love you, Kerry."

"I know," she replies with a chuckle. "Now get out of my kitchen."

I drive for a while with my windows down, long enough for the sun to set and the air to turn slightly cooler, before somehow turning up at the Fareway Freight train trestle. Another task off the Walker list. One of the last. I haven't been putting it off, like I did with Charles. Not exactly, anyway. There's a lot of history here because we used to fish underneath it as kids during the offseason. A lot of memories of long talks and big dreams. Maybe that's why I'm here. This is where we originally hatched our plan to go into the Pbr together. Maybe I'm hoping there's something magical about this place. That being here will give me clarity, or maybe I just want to get this fucking list over with and move on with the rest of my life.

I'm stagnant. I'm literally standing on the precipice. Do I follow the path he laid out before me, or do I swerve?

It's a stupid dare. Trains are rare and the trestle is rickety as fuck, but kids used to walk across it all the time until last summer when two sophomores from the football team got hit by a freight train in an initiation gone tragically wrong.

I don't know if that was before or after Walker made this list, but everything seems pretty quiet now, so I jump out of my car and hike up the steep hill in the darkness toward the tracks. I stand at one end and stare into the tunnel. It seemed shorter from where I was parked. I shine my phone's flashlight and count the railroad ties. Fifty-four in total. The trestle isn't as high as the corn silo, but it's still a good twenty-five feet in the air over Rock River. I take a step. Tiny pebbles grate against the metal, scratching and squeaking under my Jordans. I take another step and another until I'm in the dead center of the narrow bridge. Twenty-seven ties in. Wrapping my arm around the cold metal, I lean out into the open air. The cool night presses and pulls at my sweat-damp button-down, making me shiver. I gulp the air into my lungs, past the tightness in my throat. Beneath me, inky black water rushes over massive boulders, drowning out the noise of my breaths. The air pricks at my cheeks, and I realize I'm crying.

What am I doing? I slide down carefully to a squat, still gripping the metal, even as I curl in on myself. I can't seem to catch my breath. I can't feel or see or hear anything but rushing water. I don't know how long I stay like that; I only know all of a sudden, the metal beneath my palms is shaking. No. Not shaking. Vibrating. Every atom of my being instantly charges as if I've been zapped with a cattle prod, and I spin on my heel to see the telltale pinprick of lights rapidly growing in the distance.

A train.

You have got to be kidding me. I calculate the numbers. Do I have time to make a run for it, or do I have to jump? The water is fucking cold.

Run it is. Make it a sprint.

The rumbling is louder, but it's still a ways off. Twenty ties. Eighteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eight. The train is louder now. Really loud. Too loud to look. Just run. Keep running. Don't stop running.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

I scramble off to the side, sliding on the dewy grass and rolling painfully over gravel and debris. My body comes to a stop just as a mighty gust of wind and painful roaring assault me—the train flying past. I reach for my chest as if I could grasp my heart, thudding painfully inside of me, trying to escape. Train car after train car rushes past, and still I sit, rubbing at the beating muscle under my fingertips. It finally passes, and I fall back against the ground, staring at the star-filled sky and laughing.

Fucking laughing.

What just happened? I can't believe that just happened. I almost died. Fucking Walker and his fucking list almost killed me. Again.

With a groan, I get to my feet and climb back up toward the trestle.

Because of course, I have to do it all over again to get back to my truck. This time, though, I don't mess around. I don't count the railroad ties, and I don't stop at the halfway point to cry. No trains come, and I make it back to my car in one piece. The trembling has stopped, and my adrenaline has melted away. It's been seventeen minutes since I left my car, and now I'm back, and I'm just me again.

Nothing has changed. I'm still the same as I was when I stepped onto that trestle. I still have the same problems, the same misery, same loneliness, same uncertainty.

But also, everything has changed. Because that's it. I'm done letting Walker's memory guide my life. I won't survive it. I need to start living on my own.