Get a rental car or shuttle to the house. Maybe I should drive. Twelve hours driving. Too long. Book a flight. Get a car. Make sure I pack Dad’s new shoes.

In the next exam room I see the mother in the corner first, and then the little boy in the exam chair, blue paper bib around his neck. His eyes are huge. His lower lip is trembling. He’s afraid.

“I’m Dr. Alison McAdams,” I say, introducing myself before washing my hands at the sink. “But most of my patients call me Dr. Ali.”

The boy says nothing. The mother gives me a grim smile. Maybe she had to take time off work, or maybe she has children at home, or maybe she’s not a fan of dentists.

I dry my hands on a paper towel and sit down on my stool and roll towards the child. “What’s your name?” I ask.

He glances at his mom, brown eyes huge.

“Tell her,” the mother says.

“Brett,” he whispers.

“James,” his mother adds. “That’s our last name. We’ve been patients of Dr. Morris for years.”

I register the mother’s comment. That means she knows me. Or she knows about Andrew and me. Or just knows about Andrew.

“Brett James,” I repeat, forcing myself to focus. He’s little. Can’t be much older than five. “That’s a nice name. And how old are you?”

“Five.”

“And that’s a good age.”

He just looks at me. I keep smiling at him even though I suddenly want to cry and I never cry at work. Never. Ever.

“So what are we doing today?” I ask, even though I already know. I glanced at the chart on the counter even as I was washing my hands.

“I have a cavity,” Brett whispers.

“Well, I’ll fix that up for you.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No.” I pat his arm.