Today’s labs gave us a glimmer of hope, but at the same time, they reminded us just how fragile this journey is.

On paper, there were signs of progress. Branson’s white blood cell count came back at 3,800, and his neutrophils measured at 3,200. For a boy whose body has been battered by treatments and illness, those numbers are more than just digits on a page.

They mean his body has some defense against bacteria, a tiny army that is finally strong enough to fight back against at least one part of the storm raging inside him.

For that, we are thankful.

But hope is rarely simple.

The doctors also told us that his lymphocytes—the cells his body needs to fight off viruses—are still critically low. That is why this adenovirus continues to torment him. That is why his little body, though fighting as best it can, cannot yet win this battle. His immune system simply doesn’t have the strength to hold the line.

The virus has taken so much from him already. It has stolen his energy, leaving him exhausted from even the smallest effort. It has filled his days with pain, inflammation, and discomfort. It has robbed him of the lightness and ease a child should have, replacing them with fatigue so heavy that some days he can barely lift his head.

And yet, even in the shadows, there was a flicker of light.

The adenovirus levels, once at 12 million, dropped slightly to 10 million. For most, that number would still sound impossibly high. But for us, for Branson, it is a victory.

Because progress, no matter how small, is still progress. We cling to that downward trend, praying it continues, praying that with each passing day, the numbers will fall further, until one day they disappear altogether.

We also learned that his creatinine levels are improving, which means his kidneys are handling things better. Another small victory. Another reason to whisper thanks.

And yet, as much as the labs give us room for cautious hope, the reality is that Branson is still suffering. He is miserable, worn down by the relentless grip of this virus. We see it in his eyes, tired and glassy. We see it in the way his small body curls up, trying to find comfort that never fully comes. We hear it in the silence that lingers where laughter once lived.

It breaks our hearts to watch him like this.

We remember the boy who loved to run, who laughed so easily, whose smile lit up the room without effort. That boy is still here, but buried under layers of pain and exhaustion. The virus has dimmed his spark, though it has not extinguished it. He is fighting, even when he is too weak to show it.

v

And we are fighting with him.

Every day we pray for strength—for his body to grow stronger, for his immune system to rise, for his spirit to feel the relief of healing. Every day we pray for comfort—for his pain to ease, for his rest to be peaceful, for his body to find reprieve from the constant struggle.

Every day we pray for miracles—for this virus to release its grip, for his numbers to climb in the right direction, for his health to return piece by fragile piece.

We live now in the rhythm of labs and prayers. Labs tell us what is happening inside his body. Prayers remind us of what is possible beyond the numbers.

And between the two, we find our hope.

There are moments when the weight of it all feels unbearable. Moments when we see him grimace in pain and wish with everything inside us that we could trade places. Moments when the thought of another day like this feels too much to ask of him, of us, of anyone.

But then, there are moments when hope breaks through.

Like when the numbers shift, even slightly, in the right direction. Like when we see his creatinine improve and know that his kidneys are holding steady. Like when he musters the strength to give us the faintest smile, reminding us that our Branson is still here, still fighting, still ours.

Those are the moments that carry us.

Hope does not erase the suffering. But it gives us the strength to stand beside him, day after day, and believe that better days are coming.

This fight is not easy. It never has been. From the moment Branson began this journey, his path has been marked by battles most adults will never face.

He has faced treatments that drained him, procedures that terrified him, nights filled with the beeping of machines and the sterile scent of hospital rooms. And yet, he has fought through them all.

His resilience has been our lesson. His courage, our anchor. His will to keep going, our reason to believe.

Even now, when his body is weak, his spirit continues to show us what strength truly looks like. Strength is not always loud. Sometimes, it is quiet. Sometimes, it is the simple act of enduring one more day. Sometimes, it is choosing to keep going when everything inside you says you cannot.

That is Branson’s strength.

And so we hold on. We hold on to the progress, small as it may seem. We hold on to the hope that today’s numbers will lead to tomorrow’s healing. We hold on to the belief that this virus, no matter how cruel, will one day lose its grip.

We ask, humbly, for prayers.

Pray for his strength. Pray for his healing. Pray for his immune system to rebuild, cell by cell, until it is strong enough to defeat this virus. Pray for relief from the pain that weighs on him. Pray for his little body to find rest, to find comfort, to find peace.

We are clinging to hope because hope is what has carried us this far. And we will keep trusting that these small steps forward will one day turn into leaps.

One day soon, we believe Branson will rise from this bed not as a boy weighed down by illness, but as the boy we know—the boy who smiles easily, who laughs freely, who carries light wherever he goes.

Until then, we wait. We fight. We pray.

And above all, we love.

Because love, even in the hardest of days, is stronger than fear, stronger than pain, stronger than any virus.

Branson’s story is not finished. It is still being written, one lab, one prayer, one heartbeat at a time.

And we will walk every step of it with him.