He would never be ready. This was his son.

It was the blanket that killed me. Made for a child. Cushy, colorful, and crisscrossed with cartoon quarterbacks, clean-up hitters, and cheers like “Rah” and “Go Team.” What father doesn’t want their son to be the high school hero? Under the blanket was no toddler. He was 31, emaciated, and wheezing. His contracted limbs poked