"Both." My phone sounded again. "I promise we'll talk more about this when I get home."

"Callum," she began, "I only asked because I want to tell him as someone who never got a voice in what happened to me as a child."

I wanted to hold her, to tell her that I understood, and smooth out the wrinkled lines of this problem, but the damn phone insisted on me leaving.

WHERE DO I SIGN UP FOR A HEART.

Something I learned after I became a father was that children hone the power to reshape all the jagged edges of your life into smooth lines, allowing things you once found painful to easily slip away into the past.

Birthdays, for instance, were no longer regarded as death's countdown.

Everly started planning Andy's birthdays a month in advance, picking out the cake and the colors and creating invitations by hand.

One week before his seventh birthday, she had started just the same as any other year, but for this celebration, fate had no plans of sitting quietly on the sidelines, and not only did it desire to be a part of the game, it wanted to bring home the gold.

"Pop?" Andy tugged on my shirt as I talked to Peter, who had been clearing pine needles from the gutters, to help Everly get the house in order.

"What's up?"

"Scout says he feels sick."

I looked at him as Everly shouted from the yard, "I told you boys to stay away from those wild berries."

"We didn't eat anything!" he returned. "He said his head hurts."

Peter climbed down the ladder as I placed my hand to his son's forehead, expecting to find it slightly warm, and then tell him to go lie down inside for a while, but my hand was suddenly on fire.

"You're burning up, Scout."

"Everything looks funny," he mumbled, his eyes closing. "I'm so hot."

He grabbed his chest and fainted before anyone could react.

I stared at a blooming prophecy as I examined Scout's X-rays; the tether around my ribs knew this with vigorous certainty. It was the same feeling of dej vu, a haunting lucid dream I couldn't quite place having before, but knew without a single drop of doubt that it had been a moment in my life, conscious or not.

And it was met with the knowledge that I couldn't do a single damn thing to treat the outcome, except for the one thing this memory had taught me; I needed to hope.

"His heart is not pumping blood efficiently," I tried to gently break the news to Peter. "You've probably always noticed he was slower than other kids when playing, that he got tired quickly. He's been in and out of the hospital all of these years, and this is why."

"I know what he has," Peter said. "I've always known."

"Why didn't you ever mention it-Andy and Scout play together so often, despite their age difference-they've become such good friends. I thought . . . we've known each other so long, I figured you regarded us that way?"

"Would you not want my son to be friends with him if you had known?" he scoffed.

"No, what I mean is we could have developed measures to insure he was safe. I wouldn't have let the boys run around as crazy as they do, things like that. Plus I could have helped him more. Asked a specialist to see his case."

"Exactly," he nodded, "and that is not my wish for him."

"Peter," I warned, "this is not a way to deal with Scout's condition. You can't be . . ." and this is where I found Timothy Brighton locked inside of my throat. " . . . Reckless."

"My son will die regardless of what I do. The only difference is how much of life I'm willing to give him before it's his time to go."

"He could have a transplant. Have you ever explored this option?"

His eyes mordent, he laughed. "I'm a widowed handy-man without insurance. Where do you suppose I sign-up for a heart with those qualifications, Doc Trovatto? You gonna give me a million bucks 'cause we're such great friends?"

I could have cried. I could have crumpled to the ground and simply stayed there until the end of my existence, until the wind had blown away the dust I had become.

Not because I hurt for Peter or Scout or my son losing his friend-because I knew exactly what fate intended to do with me-I found my purpose, and it was the most beautifully cruel design I could have imagined.

"You're quiet," Everly noted over dinner. "Worried about Scout?"

Andy had gone to bed early, so I could afford a little honesty. "I'm worried about you."