This time, Dr. Giacherio didn’t start with the good news.
The same consult room. The same soft, low chairs. The same lemon-cleaner smell. I knew the room well enough to hate it before anyone said a word.
It was Monday, March second, two and a half weeks after I’d rung the bell. Dad sat beside me with his legal pad balanced on his knee, and Pops stood behind us, one hand resting on the back of my wheelchair. The chair beside my wheelchair had a split in the vinyl seam of its armrest, right at the height of my hand. I remembered picking at that split with my thumbnail in October while we waited for him to tell us what was wrong with my leg.
He didn’t start with anything. He clicked through the images on his monitor while the rest of us listened to the mouse. My femur came up first, gray and white, the tumor still visible in the bone. He left it there for a moment before bringing up the scan of my chest.
There was a small bright spot in my right lung that hadn’t been there in December.
Behind me, Pops took a sharp breath. I’d never heard him make that sound before, and I couldn’t look away from the screen long enough to see his face. The spot was tiny, maybe the size of a pea, but once I’d noticed it, I couldn’t see anything else.
“The tumor in your leg is still there,” Dr. Giacherio said, turning toward us. “It’s too soon to know the full effect of the radiation. We need to give that more time. But this finding in your lung is new.”
He didn’t say I’m sorry, which I appreciated. He explained that the spot was concerning, especially with Ewing sarcoma, but that a scan alone couldn’t tell them exactly what it was. They needed to compare the images, review everything with the rest of the team, and decide what to do next. He talked about possible spread and whether we might need to change chemotherapy. He said we still had options. He said control three times.
In October, sitting in this exact room, he’d said localized. Dad had written it down and underlined it because we’d all needed something good to hold on to. I kept waiting for Dr. Giacherio to say it again, even while he explained why he couldn’t promise it still applied. He never did.
Dad’s pen stopped above his legal pad. He was looking at the screen with his mouth pressed into a thin line, and for the first time since we’d walked in, he hadn’t written anything.
“Is it because I waited?” I asked.
Dr. Giacherio turned away from the monitor. I picked at the edge of my sleeve, wishing I could take the question back before I’d even finished asking it.
“Since August. I didn’t tell anybody how bad my leg hurt. Or about the night sweats.” I swallowed. “Did I make it worse?”
“No.” He moved his chair so he was facing me completely. “Sloane, you did not cause this. Waiting to tell someone about your symptoms did not make this happen.”
I nodded because he was waiting for me to acknowledge it. Believing him was going to take a little longer.
The rest of the appointment turned into a conversation about what might come next. One possibility was another five-day hospital stay for a different chemotherapy regimen. Five more days of hospital food, plastic mattresses, and Pops arguing with the vending machine because it never gave him the right crackers.
Nothing was decided yet. Dad asked about the lung spot, whether another scan might help, and what would happen if my counts weren’t ready for treatment. Pops wanted to know who would explain everything to me without using twelve words when three would do.
Dr. Giacherio answered them both. Every so often, he stopped and looked at me, making sure I was following.
I was following. I just didn’t particularly enjoy where we were going.
By the time we left Aurora Children’s, Dad had a folder of papers and a list of questions that ran onto the back of his legal pad. The drive home from Aurora usually took about twenty-five minutes, depending on traffic, and we’d made it so many times that I knew which exit Dad was taking before he put on his blinker.
An empty overnight bag sat in the back of the Suburban. Pops had brought it just in case somebody decided to admit me again. Every time we hit a bump, the zipper rattled against the plastic trim. Nobody turned on the radio.
Somewhere near the I-225 exit, Pops cleared his throat. “He said we still have options, Sunshine. That’s good.”
I kept watching the traffic through my window. “Localized was better.”
Dad’s eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror. Pops looked away, and nobody tried to convince me otherwise.
By Tuesday, I’d stopped opening my door.
My room was warm and stale from being closed up. The humidifier Pops had bought hissed softly on the dresser, blowing a thin ribbon of mist toward the ceiling. My blackout curtains were shut, and I’d been under the coral comforter for so long that I was starting to recognize every little snag in the fabric.
Behind the closed door, I could sometimes make it an entire hour without someone asking how I felt. I couldn’t change what was on the scan, and I couldn’t make the doctors decide any faster, but I could ignore a knock. So far, I was getting pretty good at it.
The navy bean bag sat by the window, still dented from the last time Chandler had sprawled across it while I sat on the bed. He used to stretch his legs out until his sneakers nearly touched my dresser, then complain when Bernard decided his stomach was a perfectly reasonable place to sleep.
Nobody had sat there since Valentine’s Day. I hadn’t bothered to straighten it.
My phone was on the nightstand. Dad had made me turn it back on in case the hospital called with the next step, though I pointed out that the hospital had his number, Pops’ number, and probably Bernard’s if they looked hard enough. He hadn’t laughed.
Mrs. Beckem’s Tuesday session had been canceled. Dad had emailed her Monday night, telling her we needed to pause for a bit, and she’d written back almost immediately.
Absolutely. Whenever she’s ready. I’ll be here.
I read it twice before setting the phone down. She’d probably have a whole stack of Algebra waiting when I decided to rejoin civilization. Assuming I remembered how to solve anything more complicated than which side of the bed had the least crumbs.
Every morning since the bell, I’d woken up at 7:29 anyway. For six weeks, Chandler had sent a quick message when he arrived at the radiation clinic. Usually just Here, sometimes followed by a complaint about the weather or Stetson. There were no more appointments for him to meet me at, and I was the one who’d told him to leave. I knew why the messages had stopped. That didn’t stop me from checking.
He could’ve come over if I’d asked. Nobody had banned him from the house, and Pops probably would’ve fed him before either of us got a word out. We’d broken up because I’d told him I wanted him to go, and he’d believed me.
The Dashiell training notebook was on my desk, its spiral cover bent from riding in Chandler’s back pocket. The wire had been crushed flat at one end, and the bottom corner was soft from where he worried at it with his thumb whenever he was thinking.
Since January, Chandler had brought it to radiation every Monday with his Saturday notes, and I’d read through everything in the waiting room. After Valentine’s Day, he’d left it on our porch without ringing the bell. I hadn’t opened it since.
Tuesday afternoon, I finally pulled it into bed with me. Chandler’s handwriting filled page after page, crooked and cramped, with arrows pointing to things he’d forgotten to include the first time.
Sat on lobby floor. D came halfway. Tunnel: no. Kiddie pool: absolutely not.
Farther down, he’d written, Walked the fence line with me and didn’t look back for you once. Underneath it, in smaller letters: (Kidding. He looked back 4 times.) I smiled before I could stop myself.
The last entry was dated February fourteenth, written that morning before everything went wrong.
Sat 2 min at end of Hallway A. Then went to window and waited. Think he knows Saturdays are yours.
I rubbed my thumb over the page. Dashiell’s evaluation was March twenty-first, only eighteen days away. That was the date Miss Davison had circled months ago, back when I’d been convinced we’d have him ready with time to spare. Now I didn’t even know whether I’d be home that day.
I turned to the next blank page and wrote March 21: evaluation. Underneath, I started listing everything Dash could do now that he couldn’t do in October. Sit near the lobby door. Walk the fence without bolting. Wait at the window without panicking when someone passed.
I got as far as two handlers before my pen stopped. Miss Davison had been clear about that part. Dash needed both of us, and I couldn’t bring myself to write Chandler’s name beside mine.
At 6:15 that evening, Bernard’s nails clicked across the hardwood outside my bedroom. They continued toward the foyer, then stopped. I knew where he was going, but I reached for my crutches anyway. Keeping my left foot off the floor, I made my way to the bedroom door and opened it enough to see the front entry.
Bernard sat facing the frosted glass beside the front door, ears forward and tail stretched behind him. Six-fifteen was about when Chandler used to come over after work or practice, before dinner. Bernard had gotten so good at recognizing his Jeep that he’d sometimes reach the door before the engine stopped. He’d been waiting like this every evening since Valentine’s Day.
Dad came out of the kitchen with a treat in his hand. “Come on, bud. Dinner.” He crouched beside Bernard and scratched behind his ears, but Bernard only took the treat, set it between his paws, and went back to watching the door.
Dad looked down the hall and caught me watching. I went back into my room before he could ask whether I wanted dinner. On my desk, Dashiell’s notebook lay open to the list I hadn’t finished.
Around nine, a light flickered at the edge of my blackout curtains. Three quick flashes, a pause, then three more.
From my downstairs window, I could still see the light from Noelle’s bedroom across the side yard. We’d started using flashlights when we were seven and weren’t allowed to have phones. Three flashes meant are you awake? Two meant yes. One meant no, go to sleep.
The edge of the curtain lit up again. My little flashlight was in the nightstand drawer. I took it out and turned it over in my hands, the raised rubber button under my thumb. Then I put it back.
After a while, Noelle’s light went off and stayed off.
On Wednesday, Dad came down the hall carrying a grocery bag and a stack of things tucked under his arm. He knocked, waited a second, then opened my door when I didn’t answer.
“These have been piling up,” he said, setting everything at the foot of my bed. The cold from outside still clung to his sweater. “Nobody rang the bell. They just left them.” I’d asked my friends not to come, so they’d decided the porch didn’t count.
There was a bag of sour strawberry belts, ginger chews, and saltines with a sticky note in Noelle’s bubbly handwriting.
eat something!!! i love you. i’m right next door. 🌟
Emory had folded a piece of notebook paper into quarters and written out a playlist by hand. Fourteen songs, all in his terrible handwriting, with a note at the bottom.
made this for the infusion center. track 9 is a joke. track 10 is not.
Tinsley had sent a plain cream card. Inside was one word, written in thick black marker.
Stubborn.
She’d called me that in the group chat when I was in the PICU. stubborn. stay that way. Back then, it had made me smile.
This time, I couldn’t tell whether she was cheering me on or telling me to get over myself. Knowing Tinsley, probably both.
Dad stayed near the foot of the bed while I looked through everything. He didn’t tell me how lucky I was to have friends like these or suggest that I call somebody. When I finally glanced up, he just asked whether I wanted him to bring me something to eat.
“Maybe later,” I said.
He nodded and took the empty grocery bag with him. I read the notes again after he left. Noelle’s exclamation points, Emory’s stupid joke about track nine, Tinsley’s single word. Maekynzie’s name wasn’t on any of it.
I put the snacks in my drawer and set Emory’s playlist on the desk beside Dashiell’s notebook.
Wednesday was March fourth.
I’d known it all week, every time I checked my phone or heard Pops asking Dad what day the oncology team was supposed to call. I’d known it at two in the morning, lying awake while the humidifier hissed and Bernard snored beside my bed.
Chandler’s birthday. Seventeen.
Every year, Uncle Jake made pancakes and stuck a candle in the stack, even when Chandler complained that he was too old for it. Chandler always ate every bite anyway. Afterward, he’d find a reason to leave the house and spend a few hours by himself.
For years, Stetson had texted him happy bday bro at breakfast and gotten a thumbs-up back hours later. We knew Chandler liked being left alone on his birthday, so we let him.
I knew where he went now. He’d told me about Blue Heron Lake the night we first kissed, sitting together in the living room after everyone else had gone to bed. He’d told me about his mom and the birthday pancakes, about going to the lake because it was quiet and he didn’t have to pretend the day was only about cake and presents.
I hadn’t told Stetson or Noelle. It wasn’t my story to share.
At four that afternoon, I lay in bed watching a thin strip of sunlight creep around the blackout curtain. It was already turning gold. In a couple of hours, the sun would drop behind the Front Range, and I could almost see Chandler sitting near the water, probably in that same work jacket he refused to replace.
I didn’t know whether he’d gone there this year. Maybe Uncle Jake had talked him into doing something different. Maybe Stetson had taken him out. I didn’t know because I hadn’t asked.
I picked up my phone and opened our messages. The last thing he’d sent was from Valentine’s Day.
Chandler: Can we talk? I’m outside.
I looked at it for a while before tapping the message field.
Happy birthday, Chandler.
I deleted it. Too normal, considering I’d spent the last eighteen days pretending he didn’t exist.
Happy birthday. Hope the pancakes were good.
Deleted. I didn’t even know if Uncle Jake had made them this year.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.
That one stayed on the screen longer before I erased it too. Because I’d meant some of it. I really didn’t want him losing soccer because of me, and I still hated that he’d hidden the missed conditioning. What I hadn’t meant was the part where I told him to leave. I tried again.
I didn’t want you to go.
My thumb hovered over the send arrow. What was he supposed to do with that? Show up and pretend we hadn’t hurt each other? Forgive me because I was having another terrible week? I erased it.
For a while, I just held the phone and watched the light change across the ceiling. Then I typed his name, nothing else, and looked at it until it stopped looking like a word. I deleted that too. Five attempts. Nothing sent.
Sometime later, the front door opened and shut. Bernard scrambled to his feet in the hallway, nails skidding against the hardwood, then settled again with a long sigh. Not Chandler.
A minute later, footsteps came down the hall, fast enough that I lifted my head from the pillow. My door swung open and bounced against the stopper.
Stetson stood in the doorway in his black puffer jacket, his hood down and his car keys still in his hand. His cheeks were red from the cold, and his hair was flattened on one side like he’d been wearing a hat. He didn’t come in right away. He looked past me at the empty bean bag, then at my phone, lying facedown beside my knee.
“You know what today is, right?”
I pushed myself up against the pillows. “Yeah.”
He let out a short breath and looked toward the hallway, as if he needed a second before he said anything else. His keys were digging into his palm, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I went to see Chandler,” he said. “He wanted to be alone, so I left.”
I glanced at the phone. Stetson noticed, and his mouth tightened.
“He didn’t even get a birthday text from you, Sloane.”
Five messages I’d written and deleted, and somehow Stetson knew about the one that mattered.
“He kept checking his phone,” Stetson said. “The whole time I was there.”
I had no idea what to tell him.