Mike’s birthday was still six days away.

But Alan couldn’t wait.

Because his hands might not wait either.

Mike stopped by Alan’s house like he always did.

Afternoon tea.
Old stories.
Two old friends pretending time was still polite.

He walked into the kitchen—

and froze.

It looked like a battlefield.

Flour everywhere.
On the floor. On the counters. On the walls.

Eggshells stuck to the marble.

Dirty bowls stacked high in the sink.

And in the middle of it all—

Alan Alda.

Ninety years old.

Slumped at the table.

Apron smeared with chocolate.
Sweat running down his forehead.
Hands trembling uncontrollably.

Exhausted in a way only an eight-hour fight can leave you.

In front of him sat a cake.

Not round.

More like… oval.
Lopsided.

The chocolate frosting was uneven—
thick in some places, thin in others, smeared like a child had done it.

And on top, written in shaky white icing, letters barely holding together:

“Happy Birthday Beej.”

Mike stared.

“Alan… what is this?”
“My birthday’s not for six more days.”

Alan lifted his head.

His hands were still shaking.

Worse than usual.

Eight hours of fighting Parkinson’s will do that.

But he smiled.

Tired.
Proud.

“I know,” Alan said quietly.
“But this morning… my hands were a little steadier than usual.”

“Just a little.”

“And I thought—
I have to do it now.”

Mike stepped closer.

Looked at the destroyed kitchen.
The crooked cake.
His ninety-year-old friend who had spent eight hours fighting his own body.

“For this.”

“Alan, you could’ve just bought one—”

“No.”

The word came out sharp.

“I didn’t want to buy one,” Alan said.
“I wanted to make one. For you.”

“With my own hands.
Even if they don’t work right anymore.”

Alan pushed the cake toward him.

His trembling fingers left smudges on the plate.

“I was scared,” he admitted.

“Scared that in six days… this damn disease would win.”

“Scared I’d wake up and my hands wouldn’t listen at all.”

“So I did it today. While I still could.”

“Six days early—so what?”

“The cake’s fresh. That’s what matters.”

Mike didn’t see an ugly cake.

He saw eight hours.

Eight hours of Alan standing in that kitchen.

Mixing batter with shaking hands.
Picking eggshells out of the bowl.
Checking the oven again and again.
Spreading frosting that wouldn’t spread.
Forcing letters his fingers wouldn’t form.

Eight hours of Hawkeye Pierce at war.

Not with the Army.

With his own body.

And he won.

Mike sat down.

Didn’t ask for a knife.
Didn’t ask for plates.

He dipped his finger into the messy frosting and tasted it.

“Well?” Alan asked.
“Is it good?”

Mike nodded.

Tears filled his eyes—but he was smiling.

Smiling so wide it hurt.

“This is the best birthday cake I’ve ever had,” he said.

“In my entire life.”

“Thank you, Hawk.”

“It’s six days early—”

“I don’t care if it’s six days early.”

“I don’t care if it’s six months early.”

“What matters is that you made it.”

“That’s not a cake, Alan.”

“That’s a love letter.”

“Written in chocolate.”

Alan’s eyes filled.

“I just wanted to give you something,” he whispered.
“Something that meant something.”

“Not from a store.”

“Made by me. While I still can.”

“You know what the worst part of this disease is?” Alan said.

“It’s not the shaking.”

“It’s that every day, it takes a little more.”

“A little more control.
A little more independence.
A little more of me.”

“And I’m terrified that one day… I won’t be able to do anything for the people I love.”

“I’ll just be someone who takes.”

“So today—while my hands still worked—
I wanted to give.”

Mike reached across the table.

Took Alan’s shaking hands.

Held them steady.

“You are not a burden,” he said.

“You never will be.”

“And this cake—”
he glanced at the crooked mess—

“is worth more than a thousand perfect bakery cakes.”

“Because it was hard.”

“Because you fought for it.”

“Because every wobbly letter proves you don’t give up.”

“And when the day comes that you can’t make a cake,” Mike added,
“I’ll make one for you.”

“And it’ll be just as ugly.”

“Ugly cakes forever?” Alan asked.

“Ugly cakes forever.”

They sat there.

In a ruined kitchen.

Eating cake with their fingers.

Two old men celebrating a birthday six days early.

Because when you’re ninety and fighting Parkinson’s,

you don’t wait for the right day.

You take the day your hands give you—

and you make it count.