After the End(48)



“How many students do you have here?”

“Forty-three at the moment.”

I begin to try to extrapolate the figures, but Professor Greenwood cuts in gently.

“Not all of whom will reach adulthood, of course.”

He continues walking, and for a second I stay behind, standing in the corridor, filled with uncertainty.

I leave with Professor Greenwood’s card, and his commitment to provide evidence—should it be required by the court—of the quality of life Dylan could be expected to have, should the proton beam therapy work. Greenwood’s time and expertise will cost me three thousand pounds, and I think of all the times I’ve billed clients three times that, and not balked at the figure.

The GoFundMe page has hit five figures and rising, but I don’t yet know the full extent of what we’ll need. There are witness expenses, and additional research, and the cost of flying Dr. Sanders over to examine Dylan, since the court will not accept his testimony without that. And if we succeed, I will need to find somewhere to live in Houston, and some way of paying for it. I am hanging on to my job by my fingernails, but it’s only a matter of time before Chester loses patience.

Back at my hotel, I catch up on Twitter, although I have several thousand followers now, and I can no longer keep up with the hundreds of messages I receive every day.


@MaxAdams the world is fighting for your little boy—stay strong! x


@MaxAdams is an inspiration. That little boy deserves justice #DylanAdams #FightforLife


We’re all behind you @MaxAdams #DylanAdams #prolife #parentpower



I click on the hashtag of my son’s name, drawing strength from the tweets that flood my screen. Many of the accounts have a flash of yellow across their avatars; a special filter added to show their support. For my son. I feel a rush of confidence, of vindication.



* * *





I pick up the hotel phone and dial a number I still know by heart. As I wait for my mother to pick up, I put Pip’s Twitter handle into the search field. She tired of the platform a few months after she’d joined, and her feed is empty, bar a few tweets from when she was pregnant. Can’t wait to sleep on my stomach again! she’d tweeted. Two people had “liked” it.

“It’s me.”

“Oh, honey . . .”

“I’m OK, Mom.”

“How is he?”

“No change.” I hear a sigh. I picture her in the redbrick house where I grew up, still standing in the kitchen to take the call, even though the phone that tethered her in place has long since been replaced by a cordless one. “But that’s a good thing, Mom. The longer he breathes on his own, the harder it will be for them to argue against us.”

I say us because of Laura King, witnesses like Dr. Sanders and Professor Greenwood. I say it because of the Twitter followers, vocal in their support. I say it because it makes me feel less alone.

“And how is Pip?”

In among the few tweets in Pip’s feed, the search page has brought up messages from other people. My breath catches as I read them.


Someone should switch of @PippiLongStock’s machines and see how she likes it!


@PippiLongStock your not fit to call yourself a mother



“Max?”

“I don’t know.” I feel nauseous. I hope Pip hasn’t seen these messages, that she won’t think to look at Twitter. “We’re not talking.” Silence on the line tells me my mother’s views on this development. I shut the app.

“I don’t want to interfere—”

“Then don’t. Please.”

“—but remember, that girl’s hurting as much as you are. As much as we all are.” There’s a break in her voice and if she starts crying I know I will.

“I gotta go, Mom.”

“I’m coming over,” she says. “I’ll book a flight tomorrow.”

“Mom, please—come see us in Houston. We’ll need you then. I’ll need you.”

She sighs an OK, and I close my eyes, wishing she weren’t eight hours away. Wishing I were home with Pip, wishing Dylan were OK, wishing none of this were happening.



* * *





I only go to the GP to get Chester off my back, but the doctor listens to my myriad symptoms—the nausea, the headaches, the twisting in my gut—and concludes that I’m stressed. No kidding, I think.

“Is there anything going on at the moment that’s worrying you?”

The GP is young and guileless. Dylan’s story is in every newspaper, every day, and I wonder if she genuinely hasn’t made the connection, or whether this is some kind of data protection pretense. She is, theoretically, “my” GP, although I’ve never met her before. In fact, I’ve never set foot in the doctor’s office. It was Pip who brought Dylan for his shots, Pip who bagged an emergency appointment when he had a rash.

“You worry too much,” I told her once. The memory brings a bitter taste to my throat. He’s fine. Nothing wrong with him. All toddlers are clumsy.

“I’d rather see a well child a thousand times than miss a poorly child just once,” the doctor told her, when Pip finally ignored me and made an appointment, only to be told that she was right to have done so; Dylan was sick.

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