Presque Isle 

Jonathan Johnson 

“Drink, please.”  

Every time he wants a drink, his whole life, Jake has to say this. And yet there is always this pleasant little lilt to his voice, at least with me. Every time. “Drink, please.” Bright and appreciative. As if he’s thinking about how the request sounds for you, because he is. 

I lift his coffee from the dash cupholder, turn in my seat, guide the straw to his lips. 

I want to be clear from the beginning, I am not in love with him. He is, I admit, more than a patient, far more, though that’s how we started. A couple years ago, my Peds professor asked if I’d be interested in a job with a quadriplegic man who’d recently moved up here from downstate. The hours are perfect, evenings after classes and clinic, and the care is basic, mostly just being his hands and feet and driving him places.