They've dragged me up onto the stiff bed with them both, squished between hard plastic railing and one small, sleeping body. A machine drones above our heads, a steady beeping lullaby. I run my fingers through their hair, first one, tight black curls like my own, and then the other, looser and lighter waves of brown. There's a twitching in my hand, an itch in my brain, and I ignore both. This isn't the time. Any moment now-

The door opens after a series of quick knocks, more a courtesy than to ask actual permission, and my son's doctor steps in. He smiles widely at the three of us, one grown man curled around two toddlers on a bed very obviously not intended for multiple occupancy. His hair looks a little limper, a little flatter than it did this morning, but it's late now, and he must have been busy all day. Maybe he mussed it up in a moment of frustration or absent-mindedness.

"How is he doing?" the Doctor asks, standing at the foot of the bed and fiddling with the papers in his hands, blue eyes watching the two boys sleeping peacefully.

"He's three and in hospital," I whisper, looking over at my boys. "He's terrified."

Doctor Hummel nods, frowning briefly before perking up a bit and gently waving his papers. "I have some good news," he exclaims quietly. "Great, actually."

I raise an eyebrow, run a soothing hand across one small back when the boy starts to stir. He settles back into sleep.

"His brother is a perfect transplant match," the doctor continues. "We'll be able to start treatment in the morning."

There's a moment before the flood, before I have to close my eyes against the cold rush of relief that pours through my bones. He'll get better. He'll get better soon.

"Thank you," I say, and if it comes out a little choked he doesn't mention it. He stays standing there, lets me process, and I know there's more he needs to tell me but I'm petting every part of my kids I can reach- their cheeks and foreheads, arms and backs- like they'll disappear if I'm not holding on to them. With one last touch to a small, slightly up-turned nose, I glance back at Doctor Hummel.

"What happens in the morning?"

He smiles gently, reassuringly, and leans against the foot of the bed. "We'll start the chemotherapy. We're going to have to get rid of his old immune system in order for him to build a new one with his brother's marrow."

I frown. "He'll get worse."

The doctor shakes his head. "He will get sick from the chemo, yes, but I promise you, it is necessary. He'll stay here, in a clean room, so he won't pick up any bugs or viruses while his immune system is eradicated."

"How long will they need to stay here?" I whisper as the boys begin to stir some more.

"Micah will be able to go home a few hours after we harvest his marrow," Doctor Hummel replies. "Luca will have to stay much longer so we can monitor the graft and make sure it isn't rejecting the body."

There's a moment, a pause, during which both boys wake with sleepy snuffles and bright eyes. I draw Micah, who's closest to me, into my lap as I move over to sit up properly on the bed. Once situated, I bring an arm around Luca and place him next to his brother, wrapping my arms around them both while they continue to wake up fully.

"How long?"

The doctor shrugs. "It could be three weeks, it could be eight."

"And if it doesn't take?" I ask, "If he rejects it?"

Doctor Hummel takes a breath, sits daintily at the edge of the bed and looks me square in the eye.

"If he does develop Graft-Versus-Host disease," he explains, "we can treat with steroids. He'd be very susceptible to opportunistic infections, but it would help for a while. If he then survives the steroids and the infections, then the transplant should cure him in the end."

I nod, but don't say anything. What can I say to that? The boys are chatting with each other, slapping at hands and pulling at my shirt collar. Micah knocks Luca's heart monitor off and that dreadful flat tone drones from the computer until I fix it back on his hand.

All of this, all of this, from an ear infection that wouldn't go away.

"Thank you, Doctor," I decide to say, because that's polite, right?

He shakes his head. "My name is Kurt, Mr. Anderson," and he extends his hand.

I take it with only the slightest hesitation. "Then mine is Blaine."

Two months ago, Luca had been home from school for a week with an ear infection that just wouldn't clear up. When he caught a cold on top of that, and it almost immediately turned into pneumonia, so began our hospital journey. It took a long time, countless tests, and many, many tears from both me and my kids. Fed up, exhausted, and frustrated beyond belief we were transferred here, to Maine General Hospital in Augusta, for Luca to be treated by Doctor Hummel for his Adenosine Deaminase Deficiency. I made them dumb it down for me, hearing things like 'Severe Combined Immunodeficiency' just freaked me out, so they told me it meant that he has almost no immune system. They told me he has a late-onset version, not as late as some, but later than most, and that without treatment he has a year, maybe two, to live.

I remember calling my brother that day in a panic; Luca had just been admitted and set up in a clean room, Micah was with our neighbors down the hall who have a daughter my sons' age, and I had locked myself in a bathroom, turned on all the hand dryers and faucets and cried noisily above a sink while trying to listen to my big brother's soothing voice on the other end of the phone. When I started to calm down, long after the dryers shut off on their own, I commented on the loud, boisterous noise coming from my brother's end of the phone. I asked him where he was and he said 'The airport' like I'd lost a few brain cells. Then I realized I'd been hysterical for nearly forty minutes and wondered briefly if anyone had noticed the bathroom door had been locked for so long as I turned off the running faucets.

Cooper got in the next day, all the way from California, with one large suitcase and "The rest," he'd said, "will be shipped over next week."

I hadn't let go of him until Luca woke up from his nap over an hour later.

Now, sitting with my tiny, pale son at eight-thirty in the morning in a hospital bed that looks ready to swallow him up and watching the nurse hang a menacing-looking black bag from his drip stand, I call Cooper at my apartment to make sure he's doing okay with Micah.

"We're fine, Squirt," he tells me, and I can hear Micah's laughter faintly in the background. "He's playing with your bowties- he insists he wears them better than you do."

I laugh, but cringe a little bit at the thought of having to iron and re-organize them all. I may not wear them much anymore, like I had during high school, but the sentimental value they hold is much too high for me to ever get rid of them.

"How's Little Dude?" Cooper asks, and I look over to see Luca watching intently as the nurse pokes a large, hooked needle into his chest catheter to start the session. He really is so small. The ADA Deficiency has stunted his growth- there's a very obvious difference in size between him and his twin brother.

I take a breath. "Chemo's starting," I inform him. "They say he won't feel any different for a few days, but then he'll probably feel like shit."

"Daddy!" Luca reprimands from the bed, pointing accusingly at me with one thin little finger, black curls in wild disarray as he shakes his head at me.

"Sorry, Sport," I laugh, and he gives me one last glare before turning back to the nurse, who hangs a much larger, clear bag onto his drip stand next to the small black one.

Cooper makes an accusing little noise. "Shame on you, little brother."

"Like you didn't say worse around me when I was a kid," I point out, and his silence is all the confirmation I need.

"Anyway," he clears his throat, "I found those notebooks you wanted me to bring, so Micah's headed over to the Hughes' this afternoon and I'll bring them to you."

"Thank you," I say with a groan, glancing over to the small table under the window that sits littered with napkins and tissues and an unfolded tissue box, every surface that can hold ink covered in my small, cramped handwriting.

I've stopped counting how many notebooks I go through in a month. The hypergraphia has calmed somewhat since my school days, after they put me on anti-anxiety medication following a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. Over the years my dosage has gone down and so has the compulsion, but it still persists. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like either of the twins have inherited the condition.

"When's your next book coming out, anyway?" my brother asks when the lull goes too long.

"A few months," I reply, "and, technically, it's not my book."

Cooper scoffs. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You do most of the work; I'll never understand how you don't take credit for any of it."

I shake my head. Cooper's had trouble for years trying to understand that I don't want the credit. I like being a Ghostwriter. My agent sends me drafts and outlines, people that want to write books but don't have the time or the eloquence, and I take those drafts and turn them into novels, biographies, articles and songs. There's good money in it, great money if you can land the right people, and my agent and I have spent a lot of time cultivating my stellar reputation.

No one needs to know that I've published my own books.

Poetry, mostly, a short story here or there. When it's quiet in the apartment, the boys at school or in bed, and I can't keep the words in any longer, I write for myself. Sometimes I have to translate entire pages, take the jumbled thoughts that have spilled from my pen-tip and rework them into something beautiful- something mine.

That's how being a Ghostwriter is tolerable. No one needs to know that Ghostwriter Blaine Anderson is also the best-selling poet Dalton A., whose first book of poems rocketed into popularity and won the Yale Younger Poets Prize.

No one needs to know.

"I'll be there around three," Cooper says, and we hang up after quick 'Goodbye's.

"He's doing splendidly," Kurt says, stepping into the room with a flimsy plastic apron over his dark blue scrubs, gloves on his hands, face mask hanging under his chin. I'm in a similar get up, though without the gloves and mask, as I've been quarantined in the room with Luca for a week now, and it's unlikely that I'll get him sick. Still, I bathe myself and Luca with a mild disinfectant and I know Kurt probably washed with something similar before coming in.

The day Cooper dropped off my notebooks had been the last day we were allowed visitors. I'd also had him bring over some more of my clothes and Luca's, and some of Luca's favorite toys, his nightlight (we'd been leaving the bathroom light on and the door cracked for the nights, but Luca insisted it wasn't the same as his Disney Princess nightlight), and the pink, fuzzy throw blanket from his bed, freshly laundered.

Now he sits propped up on his hospital bed, coloring books and crayons spread out on the rolling table in front of him, several of his die-cast model cars in a pile-up by his knee after a rather unfortunate collision: "You're not a very good driver, Daddy." His curls have started to come out, thinner in some places than others, but thankfully not falling off in great chunks. I brush his hair twice a day and always make sure he has several of the hospital's standard, disposable aluminum bowls near him for when he needs to vomit.

"Yes," I reply drily, "he's splendidly not eating and he's puking splendidly every four hours."

Even Luca gives me a displeased look at my tone, which makes me sigh and rub his back in apology.

"Sorry," I apologize to Kurt, but he's already waving it off.

"Believe me," he says, "there's been worse."

He goes on to say, with an anticipatory smile on his face, that they'll be taking the marrow harvest from Micah in a few days, the chemotherapy is clearing out what's left of Luca's immune system nicely, and that the transplant will happen before another week is up.

"And then we wait?" I ask.

He nods. "And then we wait."

Cooper is the one that brings Micah in for his surgery. I manage to see him before he goes under, and hold his hand while they put the mask over his little face. He blinks up at me slowly while I brush the wavy, brown curls back from his forehead, and in another moment, he's asleep.

The operation takes nearly two hours. I go up to check on Luca about halfway through, peering through the large window in his room to find him napping peacefully, then head back down to the basement surgery to wait.

Micah is wheeled out with little finesse, two members of the surgical team handing off a small Styrofoam cooler to waiting hospital staff who whisk it away and upstairs to prepare the marrow for transplant. The bed is installed in a recovery room, curtains drawn around it, where Cooper and I gently coax Micah back awake. There's some crying, he complains that his back hurts where they drilled for the marrow in his hips, but three hours later he's alert and ready to be taken home. I hold him for several long moments at the front of the hospital, unable to let him go just yet, and Cooper waits patiently. He's been a godsend, Cooper: I'll need to get him something spectacular for Christmas.

With a lingering kiss to soft baby hair, I hand my kid over to his Uncle. Micah waves tiredly over my brother's shoulder as he's carried out into the late winter cold, and I wave back until I can't see them anymore.

They've separated the marrow from the blood and now Doctor Hummel is hanging a truly grotesque bag of the stuff from Luca's I.V. stand next to bags of water and glucose. Luca is exhausted, and feebly runs his little '69 Mercedes car along the bright green rail of his bed while Kurt tries to coax him onto his back for a moment. He presses the catheter into my son's chest port and tests it to make sure he got it in right- when he pulls back on the line with a syringe and it begins to fill with blood, he knows he's gotten a good puncture. The line then gets attached to the bag of marrow, and the hydration bags get added to an external port, and then the machine starts and he's off.

Doctor Hummel stays in the room for the transplant; it only takes a little over ten minutes, but Luca is crying, frustrated and so very, very done with it all.

"Shh, sweetheart," I try to soothe him, brushing gentle fingers across his cheek. He leans into the touch but doesn't say anything.

"He's going to have to stay here a while yet," Kurt says, unhooking the tangled lines and removing the needle from Luca's chest port after the machine beeps its conclusion. I gently wipe up the bit of blood that comes up from the puncture site. "We'll keep him here while the transplant engrafts, as he's going to be prone to infection still."

"Do I get to go home, Daddy?" Luca croaks, and it kills me to see his face when I shake my head. To my surprise, when I open up my arms to hug him, he curls away from me and into Kurt, who had perched on the edge of the bed to detach Luca from the machines. Slowly, with an eyebrow raised at me, Kurt gives him a quick squeeze and, after a moment, gently steers him back to lie down against the pillows.

"We need to wait until you're feeling a little better before you can go home," Doctor Hummel tells him patiently.

Luca pouts, draws his fuzzy pink throw blanket up to his chin, and stares down at the little tufts of fuzz, eyebrows drawing together in upset.

"Are you mad?" I ask him, reaching out to put a hand on his knee.

He shakes his head. "I'm not mad," he says, then quieter, and with absolute sincerity, "I'm hurt, and disappointed, and...and mad!"

It takes all of five seconds for the laugh to snort out of Kurt, and he clasps his hands over his mouth to try and keep the rest in but he's failing spectacularly. When he sees me laughing outright, he gives up and convulses in hilarity, Luca watching on with a confused little smile.

"What can I say," I explain when he's calmed down, save for small, gasping chuckles that escape every several seconds, "he adores Audrey Hepburn."

Kurt runs a thumb under one eye to collect his mirthful tears and reaches out to pat Luca's hand. "You are my very favorite person right now, Mr. Anderson."

Luca grins, all dimples, and pats his hand right back. "You look like a tree."

Which makes Kurt laugh again and I sit, helpless to his levity, watching his easy interaction with my kid with a fondness I didn't know I had.

"Well, I have some other patients to check on," he says finally, standing up and brushing at his face once more, choking back the last of his giggles. "Thank you so much for making my day, Luca," and he gathers up the used supplies, dumps them in the large bin by the door, and waves as he leaves, shaking his head with a smile.

Luca turns to me, still smiling, and all traces of upset gone from his little face. "Can we watch the movie now?" he asks, hazel eyes alight with enjoyment.

I nod and shuffle over to his backpack. "Absolutely, little man. Absolutely."

Three weeks later, with most of his hair gone and his nausea all but dissipated, Luca is released from hospital.

Kurt himself comes in to give me the discharge papers. I pause in the middle of packing up Luca's 'Iron Man' suitcase to look them over and sign them, handing them back with a flourish.

"We hope you enjoyed your stay here at Maine General," he intones, a teasing glint in his eye as he looks between me and Luca, "and, please, never require our services again."

I laugh at that, but Luca frowns from the head of the bed, 'packing' his toys into his backpack, but playing with his cars when he thinks I'm not looking.

"You don't want to see us again?" he asks, lower lip trembling, waterworks on the way.

With a quick hand I pet his arm and explain. "He just means he doesn't want you to get sick again. I'm sure he doesn't hate you."

Kurt gasps. "I would never!" he insists. "You've been a wonderful patient, Luca, and I just want you to be healthy again."

Luca nods, mollified, and goes back to his cars. I roll my eyes at the ever-changing nature of the toddler's temper, and zip up his suitcase, placing it on the floor next to mine.

"Ready to go, Champ?" I ask him, and he hastily packs up the last of things, grabs his blanket, and crawls across the bed to me. He raises his arms for me to lift him up, so I grab him and set him on my hip.

"Here," Kurt hands me another few sheets of paper. "He's going to need to take these pills for a while, all the information's there, and there's a pharmacy downstairs in the clinic you can get it filled at. It shouldn't take long."

"Thank you," I say, gently readjusting Luca. "You've been wonderful with him, I can't thank you enough."

Kurt shakes his head, tugs a small business card from his scrubs' front pocket and scribbles something down on the back of it.

"If you have any questions or concerns, and I mean any," he orders, holding out the card, "do not hesitate to give me a call."

There's a lump in my throat as I take the card and I don't know why. "I promise."

He nods, satisfied. "Good. Is someone coming to help you?" he gestures to the suitcases and my messenger bag, and at the same moment Cooper waltzes into the room.

"That would be me," he grins, heading straight for Luca to give him a hug, except the boy won't let me go, so Cooper just ends up hugging me with Luca in the middle.

"Alright," Kurt nods, backing up towards the door. "Don't forget the prescriptions, follow the instructions to the letter, and don't forget to-"

"I won't, Kurt," I interrupt. "I promised, remember?"

"Yes, well," he nods, one hand on the doorknob. "Take care, Luca. Goodbye, Blaine, Cooper."

And he's gone.

Cooper stands in silence for a moment before snatching the business card out of my hand.

"I knew it," he cheers, peering at the numbers on the back.

I snatch it from him and stuff it and Luca's prescriptions into the front pocket of my messenger bag. "You know nothing."

My brother shakes his head, puts my bag on his own shoulder and grabs the handle of my suitcase while I take Luca's, and the boy carries his own backpack on his little shoulders, still hugging his blanket to his chest.

"I know you and the doctor have a thing for each other."

"You know nothing, Cooper," I repeat.

The prescriptions only take fifteen minutes to fill, and it's another thirty before Cooper is pulling into my apartment building's lot. We lug everything up to my fourth-floor apartment in one go, Cooper handling the key at the door, and drop all the luggage unceremoniously in the living room.

"How does it feel to be home, kiddo?" Cooper asks, taking Luca from my arms where he immediately curls up against his Uncle's shoulder.

"I missed it," he says, his voice a bit muffled against Cooper's neck. I let them have a moment and walk down the hall to collect Micah from the Hughes'. Wes opens the door with a smile, my other son clinging to his leg until he recognizes me, and then he's in my arms.

"Daddy!" he screeches. "You're home!"

I laugh and cuddle him; it's really been much too long, and I don't think I'll be able to let either one of them leave my sight for the next good while.

"Luca's home for good?" Wes, a good friend of mine since we met the day I moved in three years ago, asks with a nod towards my front door.

"Hopefully," I say, "barring any complications. He won't be able to go out or have visitors for about six months, though."

Wes' eyes widen, but he nods in understanding. "Well tell him I'm glad he's back, and if you ever need someone to watch this one," he reaches out to pet Micah's curls, "you know where to find me."

With a nod I thank him and take Micah back to our apartment, reminding him to be gentle with his brother, who's still very sick.

"But he won't go away again, right? I helped him, right?"

"You did, Micah," I tell him, opening the door, "you did."