He’s fifty-eight. A veteran. A widower. A biker with hands like worn leather and a quiet voice that never wastes words.
He worked nights as a hospital custodian so he could be available for my morning sessions.
He sat in the visitor’s chair beside my dialysis machine like it was his job description.
Black coffee. Historical fiction. No fuss.
He never missed a day.
Not holidays.
Not blizzards.
Not the kind of exhaustion that should have made a grown man cancel everything and sleep for twelve hours straight.
My family, though?
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