Caleb froze.
He imagined people filming him.
Laughing.
Posting photographs.
Making jokes at school.
He went home.
And told Ethan he'd do it another day.
Ethan smiled.
“Okay, man.”
He never made Caleb feel ashamed.
There was always another Saturday.
Until there wasn't.
On the fifth week, Ethan's health deteriorated rapidly.
The hospital admitted him again.
Caleb visited whenever permitted.
He brought homework.
Comics.
And photographs from school.
Sometimes Ethan was awake.
Sometimes he slept.
One evening, Caleb sat beside his bed.
Ethan opened his eyes.
“Did you do it?”
Caleb froze.
“The dress?”
Ethan nodded.
Caleb shook his head.
“Not yet.”
Ethan smiled faintly.
“Still scared?”
“Yeah.”
My son reached for his friend's hand.
“That's okay.”
Caleb began crying.
“I'm sorry.”
Ethan squeezed his fingers.
“Don't be sorry. Just live, okay?”
Those were among the last words Caleb heard him speak clearly.
Three days later, Ethan died.
When Caleb finished telling that story, David stood.
