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Albert Quinn Ingalls had gone through a lot in his lifetime.
He wasn't weak. Truly, be wasn't! In fact, Charles had often described the boy as "scrappy" - (though he was sure Caroline would say there was a less rude word for it.)
Albert was tough.
Maybe the city had made him that way. Cities had a weird way of mixing your brain up and making you think that the shouting and the jaunty saloon music happening around you was all there was to life.
Maybe it had been the orphan asylum, before Sleepy Eye. The cold baths and the bible thumping ministers who bade him to be grateful for tongue lashings because they came along with flat tasting porridge and a bed that kept him out of the rain. Even surrounded by all the other children, he was alone.
And you had to be tough when you're all alone.
Albert had gotten used to it. He could take care of himself. He did not fear a wandering drunkard, or a stone faced priest, or even a broad shouldered farmer who wanted him to have a better life.
A better life with his family.
Albert had wondered what the man - Ingalls - wanted. What his angle was. He could admit, even then, that he had one fear tucked inside his chest which fluttered like a caged bird if he lingered on it. It was the fear of getting close, that feeling that every breath of air that stung his lungs warranted an apology.
That had been his only fear - allowing himself to belong. It had been almost too easy to forget what rain slick concrete feels like on your back, once you have a warm quilt to lie under. And it took ages, to feel like he wasn't a stranger to the family that truly seemed to care about him.
But slowly, that dizzying worry blurred. Summer faded into fall, faded into winter, and gradually Mrs. and Mr. Ingalls became plain old Ma and Pa.
It had felt wrong to be an Ingalls, at first. It felt wrong to belong to someone, it felt alien to be held and told that he was a source of pride and a role model and a good friend and.. well, an Ingalls.
And Albert was tough. Maybe, now that he belonged, he could be fearless once more.
--
The doctor had said there was no cure. He twisted his mouth into a straight line when he said it, bracing himself as if he expected Charles Ingalls to punch him in the face, or yell, or throw blame.
But he didn't.
Charles - Albert's father - had turned toward the window and wept.
It was a blood disorder, that's what they said it was. Something inherently wrong inside of him, flowing through his veins.
Perhaps the minister had been right about that, after all.
And all he wanted was to go home. Not to the white walled apartment in Burr Oak, not to his stoop in Sleepy Eye, not to the muggy attic bedroom of his in between homes which he had wanted to forget - but to Walnut Grove.
Towns like that didn't ever change. Albert would breathe the country air like it could cure him.
If he closed his eyes and let the tall prairie grasses sweep his outstretched arms just right, he could be all elbows and knees again, running down the hill at Plum Creek with an exhausted laugh and a sour candy he would choke on while racing Laura to the fishing hole.
He could almost see them now, her braids flying behind her and his fishing pole thwacking against the dirt behind them as they ran.
If Albert sat still just right, he could feel the determination of a younger Albert - one with dreams, who was not scared.
But then he would open his eyes again, and he wasn't Charles' boy or future Doctor Ingalls.
He was just Albert again, and he was dying. And he could not be healed.
Albert Ingalls was tough. He wasn't scared of adventure, or pain, or loneliness, or ridicule, or even death.
He was scared that he would be forgotten.
And Albert's stomach turned at the very thought of death. Not because he was scared to go away, but because the Good Lord expected him to accept that one day, sooner rather than later, his adoptive parents would bury him in the loamy Earth that he once played baseball on. He would exit their lives as quickly as he entered them.
But at least, Albert mused as the prairie grasses brushed his arms again, he would be buried on the land that he had grown to love.