Maxwells Smile

a great flick in here you’d love to watch.”
    “I have homework,” the boy said. “Of course, you can see that.”
    “Sure, Max, but—“
    “My name is Maxwell,” the kid corrected tersely.
    “Right. Maxwell.” Sam felt as if he’d just been reprimanded by an English teacher with a tight bun and a penchant for rapping the blackboard with her ruler. “How old are you, Maxwell?”
    “Nine.” He caught his forehead in a palm, colored pencil jutting skyward. “I shouldn’t have told you that. You’re a stranger.”
    Sam sensed the slightest edge of levity in that statement. So the kid wasn’t entirely made of stone.
    “I am a stranger, but I promise I only want to see you smile. Then I’ll leave. How ‘bout this one?” He wielded a SpongeBob SquarePants DVD.
    Barely flicking his attention to the DVD, Maxwell said, “Cartoons are for kids.”
    “You’re a kid.”
    “I am not.” Maxwell sighed again, and Sam felt the weighty exhalation in his chest.
    This boy was the furthest thing from a happy, carefree kid. Watching Maxwell keep a stiff upper lip made Sam’s heartache, and stirred up bittersweet memories he’d hoped to avoid during what should have been an in-and-out mission.
    “I am a kid,” Maxwell suddenly corrected, tapping the colored pencil against his chin, “but I’m smarter than most. And if I don’t finish my homework, I’ll be less smart than required if I’m ever going to become a brain surgeon.”
    Sam whistled. “That’s an awesome aspiration. And somehow, without even knowing you, I predict it’ll happen. But still. All work and no play…” Sam tugged out a movie. “How ‘bout this one? The Brave Little Toaster . Yeah? It’s a classic. I love this story!”
    Maxwell wedged his cheek into his palm with what seemed to be bored disinterest. “How can a toaster be brave? It’s an inanimate object. That makes no sense.”
    Stunned how easily the kid could knock the wind from his sails, Sam lowered the DVD to his side. “You really don’t watch a lot of cartoons, do you, buddy?”
    The kid quirked a brow.
    Sam tried again. “The toaster’s friends are a blanket, a radio and a vacuum cleaner. After waking one morning to find the house empty—because their owners went on vacation—they go on a quest to find their missing master.”
    “Are you kidding me?”
    “No, I’m—no.” Never let it be said Sam Jones gave up the good fight. He opened the case and popped the disk into the player beneath the television. “Part of being smart is using your imagination. How else could a toaster, or a big yellow sponge, have a really big adventure?”
    “I do use my imagination. Look at this graph I’ve drawn to designate the various lobes of the brain. The pink one is the cerebellum. That part fascinates me because it controls motor skills. Don’t you think the colors I’ve chosen are imaginative?”
    “Yep, they are. And very precise. You’ve got mad coloring skills, Maxwell. Bet you’ll get an A on that one. But I still haven’t seen you smile. Give me five minutes with the toaster, and I know you’ll want to watch the whole thing.”
    Maxwell slouched against the thick pillow and crossed his arms high on his chest. He glared at Sam. Sam matched the glare, but with a lot less vehemence. He was prepared to leave if Maxwell insisted. He had no right to be bugging some random kid with homework to do, and he’d probably catch hell when the parents showed up.
    His brother had used the same pouty stare on him many a time to win an argument. Such tactics had always worked, too, ending up in a treat from the Dairy Queen or a round of Scrabble. Or both. “Both” had always been best.
    With a defeated sigh, the boy nodded. He didn’t smile, but Sam felt the same triumph he had a year earlier when he’d finally gotten Jeff to lift his head from the hospital pillow and talk to him—one last time.
    “Five minutes,” Maxwell said. “I’m setting the timer on my watch.”
    “Deal. But you’d better turn down the alarm, because you don’t want it interrupting your enjoyment of this awesome movie.”
    * * *
    Rachel McHenry smiled at the nurse she passed on her way to Maxwell’s room. The staff here at the hospital was kind and supportive, but when it came down to it, customer service still didn’t change the fact that her son had been through a harrowing experience. Only yesterday afternoon he’d gotten the worst stomach pains, and she’d had to rush him to