On these words, the child's face, so much like Jason's, flicker between his father and me. There's a spark of hope there, mixed with the weariness of long illness. I feel a lump forming in my throat, torn between the urge to gather the fragile boy in my arms and the need to maintain my professional facade.

"That's right," I say softly, squeezing the child's hand. "We're going to work together to make you strong again. Can you be my brave helper?"

A ghost of a smile touches the boy's lips, and ...