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Mitchell shifted from foot to foot and stared up at the ceiling. It didn't matter that he'd gotten used to hospitals, thanks to Amy. He still hated the places for anything more than a quick in and out to visit her and then free.

  Today was nothing like that. Not even close. This was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. And one of the most rewarding, too.

  "He's really quite fond of you," the woman -- her name was Kristie, Mitchell thought -- said. She put a hand on his arm, cautiously, like she expected him to slap it away.

  If this hadn't been a public appearance, Mitchell might have smiled at her to help her relax. No go, though. The world knew him as a grouch and he had no problem maintaining that impression, even now when a smile would make him a friend for life. But this was a public appearance, and he was being touched by someone he didn't particularly know. Reaching into the crowd for hand slaps during a show was one thing. Strangers putting their hands on him like they owned him was another.

  He wrote it off as a job hazard. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't such a big one.

  They paused outside the hospital room. The photographer bent to mess with his camera. Mitchell took a deep breath. "Now remember..." Kristie said.

  "He's sick. I get it. I've seen sick people before."

  "No," Kristie said, putting her hand on his arm again. Her fingers dug in the slightest bit, making Mitchell start. "He's not just sick. He's dying. If I could have gotten you out here two months ago, before he took this downturn, you'd have been visiting a sick kid."

  Mitchell pulled back, instantly angry. "No one said a damn thing about this to me until last week. You mean you tried and someone on my end thought this kid wasn't important?"

  She paled, the lines of her makeup suddenly obvious. "No! It was us. We thought we had more time. We..." She licked her lips and glanced around, then slowly met Mitchell's eyes. "We thought we had more time."

  Mitchell felt a pang of sympathy. "My sister's a doctor," he said. "I get it."

  "Okay," Kristie said, snapping into her role as event director -- or whatever it was. Mitchell didn't pay much attention to titles. "His parents are in there with him, so if he's asleep, let them wake him. Then you can pose for pictures, I'll have the photographer leave, and you can spend a few more minutes with him. I'm afraid that's all he can handle right now," she added with a watery smile.

  "We'll play it by ear," Mitchell said.

  "We can't alter the plan," Kristie said.

  Mitchell wished he could growl at her and tell her they damn well would alter the plan if that's what the kid needed them to do. The world worked well because of rules. Mitchell got that. What he didn't get was why people couldn't wise up and roll with things. This was about the kid, not about making sure it got done right -- whatever that meant. As far as the kid was concerned, just seeing his hero beside his bed would make the whole thing perfect.

  He shoved past Kristie and stuck his head through the door. Behind him, he could feel the photographer pressing against his back, wanting to capture the instant when the patient saw the rock star. Kristie didn't make a sound; Mitchell wondered if she'd expected him to take charge.

  Like she had predicted, the boy was asleep. The parents' eyes widened; the dad got up.

  The guy looked like he hadn't slept in a week. So did the mom. At least they'd showered recently and had clearly put on nice clothes for him. He wanted to tell the mom to take her jacket off; a mother keeping vigil by her son's bedside should be comfortable. He was the one who needed to impress, not her.

  Mitchell stepped into the room and shook the dad's hand. He introduced himself and welcomed Mitchell.

  "Mitch," the boy's mom said softly as Kristie and the photographer slipped into the room. They whispered, probably about how dark the room was and how that would mean they'd have to use flash. Mitchell wished the photographer wasn't there. There was something tranquil about the dark room and the quiet people in it.

  The dad turned on the lights. The kid barely stirred. Mitchell blinked, hoping the photographer wasn't shooting yet. Nothing like being caught wincing at the light.

  "Mitch," the mom tried again. She took her son's hand, her face a mixture of pain, grief, and disappointment. Mitchell wasn't sure, but maybe there was some failure mixed in.

  "Let me," he said, stepping up behind the mom. He put a hand carefully on her shoulder.

  She edged her chair closer to the wall.

  He made himself give her shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Hey, Mitch," he growled in his best stage voice. "Wake the fuck up and say hello. What sort of rude pussy do you think you're being?"

  The mom drew in her breath. Mitchell heard the dad take a step closer.

  But it worked. The kid opened his eyes, looking first at his mom. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  "Hey," Mitchell said, not bothering to try to hide a smile. "Over here. You've got a visitor." He could see how weak the kid was, that this visit was too late to do much good. He wouldn't be able to do much more than slip away with a dream fulfilled. If he even got to savor it, it'd be a miracle.

  "Wow," the kid breathed. Mitchell had to lean in to hear him, getting too close to pretend he didn't see the sunken and darkened eyes, the too-prominent cheekbones. The kid smelled, too. Like medicine, like hospitals. Like death was near.

  He'd read about that. Never thought it was real.

  "Hi," Mitchell said, pulling away a fraction. "I heard you think I'm cool. Came to see for myself."

  The kid glowed. Literally glowed. It started with those horribly sunken eyes; Mitchell saw hope come back into them. It spread from there until even his skin lit up with the unexpected surprise. "You came," the kid said. "I kept asking and no one answered."

  "They were busy talking to me," Mitchell said, glancing up at the photographer, who was shooting away. "Trying to work out my schedule. I'm glad I did," he added as the kid pushed at his covers. He wore a ShapeShifter t-shirt. Mitchell told him it was a good one. "They're all good. Know why?"

  The kid shook his head, his eyes lolling closed.

  "I won't approve anything lame. Every single design for a shirt comes to me. If I don't like it, it doesn't go up for sale. I brought you a whole bunch of new ones, too. A couple aren't even for sale yet."

  "I won't wear anything else," the kid said. "I told Mom and Dad..." he licked his lips. His eyes shifted, finding his parents. The mom sat forward with a cup. Mitchell took it from her and held it for the kid, steadying the straw with two fingers. He didn't need to hear the end of the sentence to understand it.

  Kristie had been right. He was too late. The kid was ready.

  Mitchell's hand shook as he handed the water to the mom. She took it from him, covering his hand with her free one. Their eyes met; Mitchell felt like an entire conversation took place in that one glance. The dashed hopes for her son, the pain of having to watch this happen, the uncertainty of how to go forward from here.

  Mitchell had seen many wounded people in his years with ShapeShifter. But he'd never been right there with the pain as it was fresh and happening.

  Mitch reached up. "Can I shake your hand?"

  Mitchell took the hand. The papery skin, the feel of those bones, the knowledge that if he squeezed too hard, he'd make the kid's hand about as thick around as a guitar string. There was nothing left of it. The bones felt ready to turn to powder.

  The flesh on Mitchell's back rippled. His throat, his golden throat, tightened up.

  "I know," the boy sighed. "You look at me and you see what's coming. I won't look in the mirror anymore. Know how hard it is to brush your teeth without a mirror?"

  That was enough to loosen Mitchell's throat. "Yep," he said with a grin. He pointed at the bed, wordlessly asking permission to sit.

  The boy nodded and shifted. Mitchell had no doubt that if the kid had the strength, he'd have moved over.

  Mitchell tried to be careful, but Mitch winced. The mom gasped as if her son's pain was her own
. The dad closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for strength.

  The photographer moved in closer. Mitchell turned to the boy. "Of course, when you have dorks like this following you around, you damn well better make friends with mirrors. Feel like posing for him? Maybe he'll go away?"

  The kid winced again. "Not really."

  Mitchell waved at the photographer. "Okay, then. We'll go with what he's gotten so far."

  "But..." the photographer started to sputter. Mitchell cut him off with a glare.

  "I don't care about the--" he cut himself off, reminding himself that he was there with a mom and a dying kid. "I don't care about the plan. We honor Mitch here, and if he's not up for more pictures, then you're done."

  The boy smiled.

  The photographer slowly moved his camera to his side. "You're right. I'm sure we've gotten enough."

  "If not," Mitchell said, winking at the boy, "there's always photoshop."

  Mitch giggled. The photographer apologized again and went to stand beside Kristie. Mitchell had forgotten she was there.

  She made a motion to him to wrap it up. Mitchell looked down at his not-really namesake. The kid was fading.

  "I gotta go," Mitchell said, getting ready to stand up.

  "Stay until I fall asleep," the boy said, reaching for Mitchell's arm.

  This hand on his arm, Mitchell decided, was okay. He looked over at the boy's parents for guidance.

  They nodded, small, hopeful smiles dancing on their lips.

  "Only until you fall asleep," Mitchell said. He took the boy's hand off his arm and held it, instead. He could feel his own warmth radiating through it.

  Mitch sighed and let his eyes shut. Just when Mitchell thought the boy had slipped into a dream, he opened his eyes. "From now on, call me Mitchell," he said.

  Mitchell Voss, lead singer and rhythm guitarist of ShapeShifter, a band who liked to tell the world to fuck off, pretended he didn't see the parents of a very sick little boy smile through their tears.

  ***

  About The Author:

  A tone-deaf rocker-at-heart, Susan Helene Gottfried worked in retail record stores, in radio stations, as stage crew, and as a promoter while earning two college degrees in creative writing. You can find Susan rocking and writing on her website: https://www.WestofMars.com

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  The Last Chance Motel and Mausoleum

  by Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick

  Copyright © 2011 Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick