Darren came in with some bad news the following day. I could tell, because his face was lit with exhaustion and desperation. So I sat him down and forced him yet again to tell me what was wrong. Maybe I was being a little pushy, but all that mattered was that I found out what had happened so I could help him out. I waited for his reply while he tapped his foot rapidly. His eyes were on anything but me and were glossed over. Darren was breathing rapidly and he looked about to explode. But he didn't. Instead, he opened his mouth to speak, but he kept his eyes fixed on the far wall.
"Dad's sick," he croaked. He said it fairly quickly and so simply, but with so much more meaning behind it. And of course I tried not to expect the worst, but by the shallow breaths and doubtful expression, I could tell that it was not a simple sickness. He put his head in his hands and took one, hard breath. I sat there, looking at the table. Darren gulped in air. He slapped his hands back on the table and shook his head.
"He's sick," he whispered this time.
Darren's face was beet red and he just kind of sat there, panting, as if he had just run a marathon. He ran his fingers through his hair and panted a few seconds longer. His eyes were still on the far wall. My eyes were settled between him and the table. When I glanced at Darren one last time, I saw that all he wanted to do was let it all out. But imagine the attention he would get then. He looked at me with such a wistful look in his eyes that I needed to turn away for a second. There were no further questions the rest of the day. But Darren hadn't said a word since that morning anyways. And that was fine with me. But what I knew would happen if I didn't allow him to let it all out is he would blow a fuse.

Later that day, Darren came over and we went down to the lake. I didn't ask him questions, and he didn't say anything. He just sat down by the lake and picked grass. We did that for about ten minutes before Darren finally curled his knees up and locked himself into a tight ball. His sobs began to fill the silence. I didn't know all of the details but I knew Darren wasn't a crier. So this was obviously very bad. I sat there as he cried and gulped down a few tears. Darren grabbed a rock and flung it into the lake with a loud splash. I looked at him and saw his despair radiating off of him in waves. So I took a rock and flung it in too. And we sat there, angry and sad with the world, but for different reasons, and flung rocks into the lake with all of our strength.

     I dropped of Darren at his house and went to see the condition of Mr. Charice. He was in bad shape. His eyes had countless bags under his eyes; his cheeks were sunk in, and he had dry lips with sores all over them. He was sitting in a hospital bed that they had brought so he could be home.
"Darren," coughed Mr.Charice.
Darren turned and sat on a stool beside the bed. I stood at the door.
"Hey," croaked Darren.
They sat there in silence. It was like they were having a conversation, but without the meaningless words.
"When I'm gone-" his dad started.
"You aren't going!" cried Darren.
Mr. Charice paused for a while. He grabbed Darren's hand and held it for several moments. Reality seeped through his eyes. His dad shifted his head to the right and took shallow breathes.
"As you wish," Mr. Charice said hoarsely. He half smiled, but his eyes did not.