Lone Wolf

And then, to my shock, the other three wolves left the protection of the trees and came into the clearing. They stretched out on either side of me. The younger female yawned and crossed her front paws.

We weren’t touching, but I could feel the heat of their bodies, and I was warmer than I’d been in months. I did not move for over an hour. Lying between them in the pool of sunlight, I listened to the sound of their breathing.

Unlike the wolves, I couldn’t sleep. Part of me was too excited; part of me kept glancing at the alpha female.

I realized she hadn’t been trying to kill me.

She’d been teaching me a lesson.

In those five minutes, I could have died. Instead, I was getting a new lease on life.

CARA

I’m being discharged. Now that my fever’s down and it seems I will survive this shoulder surgery, they want the bed for someone more needy. The bad news is that I cannot go back to school yet because I still can’t do things like hold a fork or a pencil or unzip my own jeans to pee. The good news is that I will be staying at my mom’s, and will have plenty of time to research traumatic brain injury and other cases like my father’s. Other cases where the patients, against all odds, have gotten better.

My mother promises that as soon as she gets the final papers from the nurse, we can go downstairs so I can see my father before I leave the hospital.

For the past hour I have been ready to go. I’m sitting on the bed, showered and dressed, chomping at the bit. My IV line has already been removed. From what the nurses’ station has told my mother, the paperwork is ready; it’s just a matter of my orthopedic surgeon coming by to give me discharge instructions, and to officially sign us out.

My mom is on her iPhone with Joe, telling him that we’ll be coming home. Her eyes are dancing in a way that they haven’t the whole time we’ve been cooped up here. She wants to get back to her old life, too. It’s just a little easier for her than it is for me.

When the door opens, she stands up. “Gotta go, honey,” she says, hanging up. We both turn, expecting my doctor, but instead Trina the social worker walks in with a woman I’ve never seen before in a pencil skirt and a kelly-green silk blouse.

“Cara,” Trina says, “this is Abby Lorenzo. She’s a lawyer for the hospital.” Immediately I panic-thinking of the two cops, and the blood test that showed I’d been drinking that night. My mouth goes dry, my tongue feels as thick as a mattress.

Does this mean they’ve figured out what happened?

“I wanted to ask you about your father,” the lawyer says, and in that instant I am sure that I’ve turned to stone, that I can no longer escape.

“You seem upset,” Trina says, frowning. “Edward said you two had talked.”

“I haven’t talked to him since yesterday,” I answer.

My mother puts her hand on mine, squeezes. “My son told me that he and Cara decided that Edward would make the medical decisions for their father from here on.”

“What?” I blink at her. “Are you kidding me?”

The lawyer looks at Trina. “So you haven’t given consent to terminate your father’s life support today?”

I don’t even think. I just stumble off the bed, barefoot, and use my good shoulder to shove my way between the two women. And I run. To the stairwell, down to the ICU floor, clutching my bad arm to my chest and fighting off the pain I feel with each jostle and turn.

Because this time, when I save my father, I’m not going to screw it up.

LUKE

My Native American friends call it the dance of death: the moment that two predators size each other up. For a wolf in the natural world, the brain doesn’t have a choice. It doesn’t get to say, There’s a bear coming and I’m going to die. Instead, it thinks, What do I know about this bear? What do I know about my environment? What members of my family do I need to protect myself? Suddenly the bear is no longer a threat. He knows that you’re a predator, and you know that he’s a predator. You respect each other’s ground, turning very slowly, eyeball to eyeball. The space between you is the difference between life and death. Does he see you as a prey animal? Or does he see you as something that can injure him as he comes after you? If you can put that doubt in his mind, chances are, he will leave you be.

EDWARD

She is a five-foot, three-inch storm: red-faced, tear-streaked, hair flying out wild. And she’s coming right for me.

“Stop!” Cara says. “He’s a liar!”

The doctors have gone, ready to be paged once we get the attorney’s permission. Corinne has been anxiously pacing; there is a narrow window of opportunity for organ donation that is slipping away moment by moment. I was just doing what Cara had asked. She wanted this to be over, but she was too close to my father; I understood that. It was like the little kid who holds out his arm for a vaccination and shuts his eyes tight, because he doesn’t want to look until it’s all over.

But apparently Cara’s changed her mind. Before she can scratch my eyes out, a nurse grabs her around the waist. Corinne steps forward. “Are you saying that you didn’t give consent to the organ donation?”

“It’s not enough to kill him?” Cara yells at me. “You have to cut him into pieces, too?”

Maybe I should have asked my sister if she wanted to be here. Based on what she’d said yesterday, I figured she wouldn’t have been emotionally capable of it. This outburst only reinforces that.

“It’s not what Dad wanted. He told me so.”

By now, the hospital lawyer and Trina and my mother have reached the room. “Well, that’s not what Dad told me,” I say.

“When?” she scoffs. “You haven’t lived with us for six years!”

“All right, you two,” the lawyer says. “Nothing’s going to happen today, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll ask for a temporary guardian to be appointed to review your father’s case.”

Cara visibly relaxes. She falls back against my mother, who is staring at me as if she’s never seen me before.

What I do next, I do because I have a letter burning in my breast pocket that’s validation.

Or because I know better than Cara how you have to live with the choices you make.

Or because, for once, I want to be the son my father wanted.

I lean over, bracing my hands on my knees, as if I’m disappointed. Then I dive down to the linoleum, pushing aside the nurse who is sitting beside the machine that’s breathing for my father, waiting for a cue that isn’t going to come.

“I’m sorry,” I say out loud-to my father, my sister, myself-and I yank the plug of the ventilator from its socket.