This had been done carefully.
The first report was from three weeks before my diagnosis.
CT ABDOMEN.
PANCREATIC MASS.
LIVER LESIONS.
I did not need to understand every word anymore. I had spent enough of the past year learning the language of bodies going wrong.
The dates were what mattered.
I read them twice.
Elise leaned closer. “That was before your appointment.”
“Yes.”
“How long before?”
“Twenty-two days.”
Jonah swore under his breath.
Under the scan was an oncology consultation. Then another. Biopsy. Prognosis. Palliative options. A page with three sentences underlined in pen, Randall’s hand trembling enough that the ink wandered through the printed text.
Not curative.
Metastatic disease.
Months.
I sat in the folding chair.
Nobody told me to.
My knees simply stopped participating.
On top of the next bundle lay a hospital wristband.
Elise made a noise.
Not loud. Barely more than a swallowed breath.
But I looked up.
