He walked out yesterday after a five-night stay.
The doors of the hospital opened slowly, as if even they understood the weight of the moment.
For five nights, those walls had held him in a fragile balance between fear and hope.
For five nights, his family slept lightly, listening for every sound, every breath, every change.
When he finally left, it did not feel like an ending.
It felt like a pause.
A temporary release in a war that was far from over.
His body was tired.
His eyes carried exhaustion far deeper than sleep could fix.
But he was home.
And home, for now, meant safety.
The coming days were already planned with the precision of survival.
Outpatient chemotherapy on Thursday.
Outpatient chemotherapy on Friday.
Short visits on paper, but long hours of waiting, monitoring, and holding breath in reality.
Chemotherapy was no longer a word.
It was a rhythm that ruled their lives.
A schedule that dictated energy, appetite, and emotion.
Next week, they would make the drive to MD Anderson.
Not a flight.
A drive.
Because his blood counts were expected to hit their lowest point on the very day they were supposed to leave.
The doctors explained the risks calmly, professionally.
A compromised immune system.
A simple infection could become catastrophic.
A crowded airplane cabin was a danger they could not afford.
So they chose the road.
Hours of driving.
Stops planned carefully.
Masks ready.
Hands sanitized until skin burned.
Every mile driven was an act of love.
Behind all of this was another silent battle.
His bone.
Broken by disease.
Rebuilt by surgery.
Now waiting to fuse properly.
The orthopedic oncologist surgeon held their breath in his hands.
Had the bone healed enough?
Was it strong enough to begin the prosthetic process?
The prosthetic meant hope.
It meant mobility.
It meant independence.
It meant a future that looked less like survival and more like living.
They prayed he would be released.
Released from restrictions.
Released from waiting.
Released from the constant fear that something might go wrong.
When they returned, only two chemotherapy treatments would remain.
Just two.
Two final rounds inside what they half-jokingly called his “prison camp.”
A place of isolation.
A place of medication and monitoring.
A place where days blurred together and time lost meaning.
They prayed those would be the final two weeks of cancer treatment.
They prayed with everything they had left.
And they thanked everyone who prayed with them.
Because no one survives this alone.
Then came the night that reminded them how fragile everything still was.
Mack had another chemotherapy treatment yesterday.
The kind that leaves the body exhausted in ways words cannot explain.
Sometime around three in the morning, he woke her up.
He needed to go outside.
She moved slowly, still half asleep, guiding him toward the back porch.
As she opened the door, something caught her attention.
The interior garage light was on.
The one that only activated with motion.
Her heart skipped.
Through the window, she saw movement.
A shape.
A head.
Then someone ducked down.
She heard voices.
Quiet.
Urgent.
Her heart began to race.
Fear surged through her chest, sharp and immediate.
Without thinking, she grabbed her pistol.
She ran through the house, adrenaline flooding her veins.
As she reached for the garage door, the silence shattered.
It sounded like chaos.
Like a tornado had been unleashed inside.
Metal.
Plastic.
Crashing.
She rounded the corner, prepared for the worst.
What she found stopped her breath.
Will was upside down in his wheelchair.
His worm business kit, something she had just ordered for him, was scattered everywhere.
The entire table that held the microwave had been overturned.
Plastic mold material was splattered across the floor.
Walls.
Surfaces.
Everything.
On speakerphone, another child’s voice echoed.
“Will, are you okay?”
“What happened?”
Will jumped up immediately.
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“I’m okay.”
“I promise.”
The smell hit her next.
Burnt plastic.
Fire.
Her stomach dropped.
The lid on the gallon of plastic mold mix was off.
It was everywhere.
He had used a plastic measuring cup in the microwave.
It had melted completely through the bottom.
Jason had told him not to touch the worm-making kit until a proper area was set up.
He knew the rules.
He broke them anyway.
She stared at the mess, her emotions colliding.
Fear.
Relief.
Anger.
Gratitude.
“I was more scared thinking someone broke in than I am about this mess,” she finally said.
Will’s eyes filled with panic.
He begged her not to tell Jason.
He knew he wasn’t supposed to be out there.
Jason slept through everything.
The noise.
The chaos.
The near disaster.
By 3:30 in the morning, she was exhausted beyond words.
Will tried to help clean.
Slipping.
Almost falling.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to protect him from everything.
What worried him most was not the danger.
Not the fire risk.
But the gallon of mold mix he thought he wasted.
That broke her heart more than anything.
Because he was so independent.
So afraid of getting in trouble.
She realized something terrifying.
If a fire had started, he would have tried to fix it himself.
He would have been too scared to ask for help.
All because he didn’t want to be a burden.
And then came the explanation.
The cause of it all.
A wheelie.
In that wheelchair.
The same wheelchair she kept telling him not to pop wheelies in.
She had seen a head disappear in the window because Will had leaned back.
He fell just as she was entering the garage.
A moment frozen forever.
A garage floor stain they would never forget.
By morning, the chaos had settled.
The fear faded into exhaustion.
The house was quiet again.
The chemotherapy treatment had gone well.
They were home.
Will was snoozing peacefully on the couch.
Alive.
Safe.
Still here.
And once again, that was everything.
