Ray Delgado was his partner. Ray was shorter than David, wiry, with a mustache and a temper and two daughters he talked about constantly. They were the kind of partners who finished each other’s sentences and argued about baseball for eight straight hours. Ray came to our house for dinner every other Sunday for nine years. He taught Caleb how to throw a curveball. He was Caleb’s godfather.
When David got sick, Ray was there.
He drove David to his treatments when I couldn’t get off work. He sat in the hospital waiting room through every surgery. Near the end, when David was in the hospital bed we’d set up in our living room, Ray came by almost every night after his shift. Still in uniform. He’d sit beside the bed and talk to David about nothing, about baseball, about who’d done what stupid thing at the station, even when David couldn’t answer anymore.
