"Yeah, and how're you supposed to work out who cares about you?" John asked angrily, taking a long drag on his cigarette. His nails were bitten down to the quick, ragged and bloodied in places.
His mom had hugged him, had been awkward at first but then...then it was just like being 7 years old again, sleeping on a camp bed as she sang softly.
Only it hadn't been him she'd been singing to, this time. He was just a spectator, just around long enough for them to work out if they could use his bone marrow. The look of disappointment on his mom's face, the way she just crumpled...John couldn't get it out of his head.
And he shouldn't fucking care. He shouldn't. They'd thrown him out as a kid, handed him in to a foster home, never looked for him. But they were his parents. How the hell was he supposed to say no?