“How you hanging in there, champ?” his father asked him while they waited for the waitress to bring them their pizzas.
“Champ?” Conor asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “Sorry,” his father said, smiling bashfully.
“America is almost a whole different language.” “Your voice sounds funnier every time I talk to you.”
“Yeah, well.” His father fidgeted with his wine glass. “It’s good to see you.”
Conor took a drink of his Coke. His mum had been really poorly when they’d got to the hospital.
They’d had to wait for his grandma to help her out of the toilet, and then she was so tired
all she was really able to say was “Hi, sweetheart,” to Conor and “Hello, Liam,” to his father before falling back to sleep.
His grandma ushered them out moments later, a look on her face that even his dad wasn’t going to argue with.
“Your mother is, uh,” his father said now, squinting at nothing in particular. “She’s a fighter, isn’t she?”
Conor shrugged. “So, how are you holding up, Con?” “That’s like the eight hundredth time you’ve asked me since you got here,”
Conor said. “Sorry,” his father said. “I’m fine,” Conor said.
“Mum’s on this new medicine. It’ll make her better. She looks bad, but she’s looked bad before.
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