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STONEVILLE — William Adkins didn’t make it to the bus stop Monday morning.

He couldn’t. Another migraine kept him in bed. Still, he knew he’d get there sometime this week, to the entrance of his apartment complex to stand with the students boarding Bus 12.

His son, Nick, used to do that. Back then, the bus stop attracted 10 students. But after the accident — the one that took his son’s life two months ago — the bus stop attracts only two.

No matter. William stands there for Nick, his only child, to make sure every bus rider gets on safely.

“I don’t know if I’m coping very well,’’ he says, nursing a can of Mountain Dew. “It’s too raw, too fresh. It feels like it happened a few days ago. But it’s almost April. And it’s still hard to believe.’’

Nick, 16, a sophomore at McMichael High, died before daybreak Jan. 26 at the bus stop near his front door. He was struck when an SUV tried to pass a stopped school bus.

The impact shot Nick out of his shoes. He was found at least 75 feet away. He died at the scene, with his mother, Lynn, kneeling over him, shouting, “Nicholas, please come back to me!’’

Two months later, for William and Lynn, it’s hard.

It’s hard because Nick was their pride, their best friend, their Nick.

Recently, Nick had begun to blossom. He tested well, made good grades and had started to receive stacks of letters from colleges that would take him beyond Rockingham County.

His short, slender body was growing. So was his intellect. When it came to learning, Nick had the discipline of a drill sergeant.

He admired people like theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking. He wrote on his computer every day. He posted career possibilities on his bedroom wall, in a line graph, listing education needed for each job.

Meanwhile, he wallpapered his room with information on the solar system, the elements, the world and the inner workings of government. He did much of it himself on sheets of notebook paper, in tiny, meticulous writing. Those sheets are still in his room.

William doesn’t go into Nick’s room much. But he keeps the TV on to make him think his son is still there. All William needs to do is knock.

Meanwhile, he writes and listens to music. Lynn cleans, writes, listens to music, reads Bible devotions and cleans again.

Their life had always been a struggle. William, 43, had been on disability because of a bad back ever since Nick was born; and Lynn, 41, is working to get on disability because of a litany of health problems caused by illness and a car accident.

They live in a two-bedroom town house, and they have no car; it has been in the shop since June. They lived through their son, the boy Dad called “Buddy’’ and Mom called “Angel.’’

You still see that nickname on the family refrigerator. There, on the monthly calendar for Rockingham County Schools, Lynn had written in pencil “I love you Angel’’ and “Promoted to the 11th grade. We are very proud of you, Nick!’’

On Jan. 28, as McMichael High began its second semester, Nick would have become a junior. He would have become more involved with the yearbook, the History Club, the school newspaper.

He would have gone to college. He would have learned more about politics, physics or history. He would have become a teacher, a government employee, maybe a politician.

On Inauguration Day, Nick asked his dad to pray for snow so he could miss school. When the snow came, Nick watched the inauguration on TV all day.

“Look at all the people and the paper flying,’’ he told his dad. “Can you imagine?’’

Yes, can you imagine?

Today, Nick is buried in a family plot in Eden with a few pieces of confetti from President Obama’s inauguration tucked in the breast pocket of his new suit. The confetti came from a neighbor. The suit came from Papa Tony, his paternal grandfather, and his Uncle Ben.

Nick wanted a suit for his birthday. He would have turned 17 in May.

William and Lynn Adkins, married since 1986, often think about Nick’s bright future. But today, they look out their front door and remember their last encounter, Lynn kneeling over her son and holding his hand.

“I heard him say in my head, 'I can’t come back, Mom! I can’t come back!’ but I felt God’s spiritual peace,’’ she said Monday. “A lot of people don’t know that spiritual peace, but being with my son ….’’

“You were there when he came into the world, babe,’’ William interrupted, “and you were there when he went out.’’

“Yes,’’ she responded, pausing between each word, “I was.’’

Contact Jeri Rowe at 373-7374 or jeri.rowe@news-record.com.