I’m in his sterile palace built of paper cups filled with too sweet apple juice and a linoleum bathroom where everything is too white, most of all his face and hands when he grips the remote to his personal roll-in TV. The potions and pills on his bedside table make his saliva turn cement and steals my mother’s voice from her sobs. I want to try this concoction, his greedy expensive spell that makes people care. Sunken face and yellow eyes evoke the hot coals of envy in my throat. Where his flesh ends and machine begins blur, I wonder if he is more metal or human. He is broken and I’m whole, but it feels like I’m the one fading. We didn’t go to Disney for my ninth birthday although my mom promised. I place the blame so heavily on his chest that it makes him cough, and when he presses a “Call Nurse” button the world stops and holds its breath for him. I am left to wonder how he got all the luck.