I didn’t have much. But on the second day, I bought a strip of lunch tickets from the cafeteria office with my own money. And every day after that, I’d walk past Malcolm’s table and slip a ticket under his elbow.
“The cafeteria made extras today,” I told him. “Somebody needs to eat them, or they’ll go in the trash.”
He’d look up at me with those big brown eyes. Then he’d go get in line.
I never told him the truth. I never told anyone. Not my parents, not my friends. I spent almost half my tiny paycheck on those tickets, every week, for the whole school year.
Malcolm pulled one of the empty chairs over beside my bed. The chair where David was supposed to be sitting.
Kayla cleared her throat.
“Sir,” she said, a little nervously. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours on the cardiac floor are limited right after surgery. Unless you’re immediate family.”
