Seven-year-old Toby Miller pressed his newest crayon sketch against the pale wall of Room 412, filling the very last patch of empty space next to the unconscious man’s bed.

Arthur stood up from the porch chair. He walked into the house, heading straight for Toby’s bedroom.

The walls of Toby's room were covered in posters of superheroes and cars, but one section was dedicated entirely to his older crayon drawings.

Arthur found the very last drawing Toby had made at the hospital. Day 89.

He stared at it. In the drawing, Arthur was standing under a bright blue sky, both feet planted securely on the green grass. His arms were stretched wide. Behind him was a cozy house, and on the porch sat a golden dog.

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat.

Toby hadn't just drawn a picture to cheer him up. The boy had drawn a blueprint for Arthur's entire future. He had painted a miracle into existence when Arthur was too broken to see it himself.

"Do you like it?"

Arthur turned around. Toby was standing in the doorway, holding the puppy in his arms.

"I love it, Toby," Arthur said softly, crouching down to the boy's eye level. "But I think we need to make an update."