Idaho was a wash. Sixty obits, ten car accidents, but only two organ donors. A little more digging told him neither was the right age, or organs, for his donor. “I’m having lunch with Father Kelly; then I’ll pick up dinner groceries.” Mrs. Sabir stood in the doorway of his bedroom. The strain between them since the camping trip was fierce and palpable. He barely glanced up from the screen. He was so close. She frowned at the additional strings and clippings hanging from the walls, the ceiling. “Samuel, aren’t you getting a little carri—” Carried away? You think? Thank you for noticing. “Hey, Mom, can you get more sauerkraut?” He interrupted her and ignored her question. “Should I call Dr. Myers?” She crept closer and touched his forehead as if feeling for fever. “Why?” He jerked away from her hand. “You’ve eaten three jars this week. Maybe it’s a side effect of the medications?” “I doubt it.” But he stopped and wondered. Good question. Why are you eating tons of pickled cabbage when you don’t have to?
