The sign by the elevators had two arrows.
Orthopedics pointed one way. The Center for Cancer and Blood Disorders pointed the other. Pops read it. After that, he kept his eyes on the back of my wheelchair.
Aurora Children’s Medical Center smelled like bubblegum hand soap and cafeteria pancakes, and I hated it immediately. It was 8:40 in the morning, a transport nurse was steering my wheelchair through the lobby, and I was wearing Stetson’s hoodie over my pajama top. Somebody had given me a blanket for the ride. I kept pulling it over my knees even though I wasn’t cold.
Beside the elevators, a fish tank glowed blue and yellow. A little boy in dinosaur pajamas pressed both palms to the glass while his mother tried to convince him to put his shoes back on. Beyond him, the walls were covered in mountains, hot air balloons, and a fox wearing a scarf. Somewhere down the hall, a wheelchair squeaked with every turn of its wheels. A monitor beeped steadily behind a closed door.
I looked away from the fox. I was sixteen, old enough to know the cheerful walls didn’t mean anything about what the doctors might say.
“They said orthopedic specialists, too,” Pops reminded us. He was gripping the folder of discharge papers hard enough to bend one corner. “We don’t know anything yet.”
Nobody argued. I’d heard those words so many times since the middle of the night that I was starting to wonder whether there was anything we did know.
A nurse in dinosaur scrubs met us at the assessment desk and checked the transfer paperwork. She explained that the team needed room to examine me and that the rest of our group could wait nearby. Dad and Pops came with me. Uncle Jake stayed with Stetson and Chandler, who was still wearing his gray soccer hoodie and two different shoes.
Chandler caught my eye as the nurse turned my chair. He looked like he wanted to follow, but he stayed beside Uncle Jake. Stetson barely glanced at him. My twin had been quiet since the ER. Usually, I would’ve been grateful. Now I wished he’d complain about something.
The assessment room had pale green walls and one extra chair. A paper sheet covered the exam table, and a cartoon bear on the wall held a thermometer with an expression of unreasonable delight. My temperature had come down to 100.8 at Sierra Vista Community, but my skin still felt too hot, too tight. My left thigh ached even when I held perfectly still.
The nurse helped me settle onto the table, checked my pulse and temperature, and made sure I could still feel her touch on my toes. She reminded me not to put weight on my left leg and moved the crutches Pops had thrown in the truck away from the table. She set them out of reach, and I left my hands in my lap.
Dad stood near the window with his arms folded, staring at the opposite wall. Pops sat in a plastic chair, bouncing one knee so hard its legs tapped the floor. Dad kept checking the door. I wanted to ask Pops to stop moving his leg, but then I’d have to say something, and I wasn’t sure how my voice would sound. The door opened before I decided.
The doctor shook Dad’s hand, then Pops’, before offering his hand to me. “Hi, Sloane. I’m Dr. Giacherio. I’m one of the pediatric hematology-oncology doctors.” I shook his hand while he pulled a rolling stool closer to the table. He had close-cropped gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and when he sat, his tie swung forward, tiny cartoon fish scattered across the blue fabric.
“I’m sorry it’s been such a rough night, Sloane.”
“It’s fine,” I said automatically.
He glanced at my leg, then back at me. “Tell me what’s been happening.”
So I did. The ache since August, the bone bruise I’d kept calling it, the night sweats, the four pounds. The bonfire parking lot, the play yard at Happy Paws, and how early that morning I’d hurt so badly that calling Dad had seemed easier than moving. I gave him the whole timeline, even the parts I’d spent weeks keeping to myself.
My voice stayed steady through most of it. I concentrated on the doctor’s fish-covered tie whenever it started to shake.
“May I examine your leg?” he asked when I finished.
I nodded, and he explained what he was checking before he touched me. His hands were warm. He started below my knee, testing gently, then worked his way up my thigh while watching my face. When he reached the swollen spot, he stopped. His fingers rested there a moment before he applied the lightest pressure.
I gasped and grabbed the paper sheet hard enough to tear it.
He withdrew his hand immediately. “I’m sorry. That’s the spot?”
“That’s the spot.” I tried to smooth the torn paper beneath my palm, as if the exam table was the thing I’d damaged.
Dr. Giacherio rolled toward the computer and brought up the images from Sierra Vista Community. My femur filled the screen, pale and long, with a cloudy area in the middle that didn’t match the rest of it.
“The emergency doctor used the word lesion,” he said, turning the monitor so I could see. “That means an area of bone that looks different from what we expect.” He moved to another screen. “Your blood tests also show an elevated white blood cell count, mild anemia, and raised markers of inflammation.”
Most of the numbers meant nothing to me. “Does that tell you what’s wrong?”
He took off his glasses and held them loosely in one hand. “An infection in the bone is one possibility. Some noncancerous bone conditions can also look concerning on an X-ray. But because of the lesion, the fever, and the pain you’ve had at night, we also need to consider a bone tumor. Some tumors are benign. Others are cancerous. I’m concerned enough to involve our orthopedic oncology team right away.”
I’d been expecting him to say something like that. Dr. Danielson had already mentioned oncology before we left Sierra Vista, and I’d spent the entire ride here trying not to think about why.
Hearing Dr. Giacherio say tumor still made me look at my dads. Dad’s breath caught. Just once. Then his face went carefully blank, the way it did when he was trying to think through a problem before anyone noticed it had scared him. Pops leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees.
“But you don’t know yet?” Pops asked.
“That’s right.” Dr. Giacherio didn’t rush to fill the silence. “We cannot diagnose this from an X-ray. We need more information.”
“So what happens now?” I asked, pressing my palms against the edge of the table.
“We’ll start with a detailed MRI of your thigh to see the bone and surrounding tissue more clearly. I’ve also asked Dr. Mehta from orthopedic oncology to examine you and review the images. If a biopsy is needed, her team will plan how and where to take the sample.”
“Why can’t somebody just take a piece now?” The words came out sharper than I meant them to. “If that’s how you find out, why wait?”
“Because the location and approach matter,” he explained. “If surgery becomes part of your care, we want the biopsy done in a way that protects your future treatment options. Imaging comes first.”
Dad had been making notes on his phone. At some point, he’d stopped. “Will she need other tests?”
“We’ll repeat some blood tests and check for signs of infection. We may need chest imaging and other tests, but the MRI and Dr. Mehta’s assessment will help us decide.”
Pops glanced at my leg, which was stretched out stiffly on the exam table. “What should she do until then?”
“Keep all weight off the left leg. The abnormal area appears to have weakened the bone, and we don’t want to risk a fracture. We’ll address her pain and fever while we work out the next steps.”
Dad cleared his throat. “Her bedroom is upstairs. We have a guest room on the main floor. Should she be using that?”
“If you have a room downstairs, use it,” Dr. Giacherio said. “Dr. Mehta will give you more specific guidance. If Sloane is discharged, we’ll make sure you have clear instructions and any equipment you need.”
“So I’m moving into the guest room,” I said. It wasn’t a question. We’d already done this part in the ER.
“We haven’t moved anything yet,” Pops said, reaching for my hand.
“You will.”
“We will,” Dad said. “We’re worried about getting you upstairs.”
I looked down at Pops’ hand over mine. “I know.”
The crutches leaned against the extra chair. I’d spent Monday wishing I could leave them at home. Now the doctor had said no weight, and I could still remember how it felt to be stranded between two cars in the school parking lot.
I could ask about that sign. I could ask whether the word oncology meant the doctors already suspected something they weren’t saying. Instead, the question that had been sitting in my throat since the ER came out first.
“How long am I out of volleyball?”
Pops closed his eyes. Dad looked at me, and for one second I wished I could stuff the words back into my mouth. But Dr. Giacherio didn’t laugh or tell me it was a silly thing to ask.
“Until we know what’s causing this and it’s safe for you to return. I can’t give you a date yet, Sloane. I’m sorry.”
I picked at a loose corner of the paper sheet. I’d spent years measuring my weeks in practices and matches. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a Saturday that didn’t revolve around volleyball or Happy Paws, and now I wasn’t supposed to do either.
Dad’s phone buzzed. Uncle Jake wanted to know if we needed food or anything from home. Dad typed back that we were still talking with the doctors, then put the phone facedown in his lap.
“I’m going to speak with Dr. Mehta and the imaging team,” Dr. Giacherio said, standing. “We’ll arrange the next steps here and keep you updated.”
“Does Dr. Mehta do surgery?” I asked before he reached the door.
“If it comes to surgery, she’d be part of that conversation. Right now, we figure out what this is and protect your leg.”
The door clicked shut behind him. I hadn’t known there were so many kinds of doctors for one bone, and I was beginning to suspect I’d be meeting more of them before anybody let me go home.
After another set of checks, the nurse helped me back into the wheelchair and took us toward a quieter family area. Chandler was sitting beside a vending machine with his hands clasped between his knees. He looked up when the nurse brought me around the corner, then stood, pushing his chair back against the wall.
He’d been awake since Stetson texted him. I should’ve told him to go home and get some sleep. Instead, I checked the chair beside his for a jacket or a bag, anything that meant he was staying.
“You’re still here,” I said.
“Yeah.” He came closer but left room for the nurse to get past. “How’d it go?”
“Where’s Stetson?” I asked, because talking about my brother seemed safer than talking about me.
Chandler glanced toward the elevators. “He needed some air. My dad went with him.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s worried about you.” Chandler pulled a chair closer but waited until the nurse had stopped beside it before sitting down.
“He hasn’t said anything since we got here.”
“He didn’t say much to me, either.” Chandler looked at me, his eyes red around the edges. “What did the doctor say?”
I could’ve said they didn’t know yet. That was true, and he’d already heard Dr. Danielson explain the lesion. But it would’ve left out what Dr. Giacherio had told us since.
“He thinks it could be a bone tumor,” I said. “They have to do an MRI, and an orthopedic oncology doctor is coming to see me.”
Chandler didn’t move. For a moment, he looked at the floor between us. Then he put one hand against the wall beside the vending machine.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
A cart rattled past us. Somewhere down the hall, two nurses laughed about something I couldn’t hear. I wanted to know what was funny. I wanted to be the kind of person who could laugh in a hospital hallway and then go home.
Chandler glanced toward the elevators as another family stepped out carrying coffee and a bunch of balloons. I waited for him to say something else, but he was rubbing one hand over his knee.
“You can go home,” I told him. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.” He glanced at the nurse, who was checking something on her phone. “I’ll stay a while, if that’s all right.”
I nodded before I could talk myself out of it.
Dad came out of the assessment room with Pops a few steps behind him. His glasses were perched on his head, and his face had gone pale in a way I’d never seen. When he noticed Chandler, he walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder. One squeeze, the same way he’d done after soccer games since the boys were little.
“You should eat something, bud,” Dad said. “You’ve been up since two.”
“I will,” Chandler said. Dad kept his hand on his shoulder for another second before letting go.
“They’re working on the MRI,” Pops said. “Then we’ll know more.”
The nurse started steering me toward a room where I could rest while they made arrangements. Chandler fell into step beside the wheelchair. After a few yards, he reached down and laid his hand over mine on the armrest. His palm was warm against fingers I hadn’t realized were cold.
I turned my hand beneath his, and he adjusted his grip without looking at me.
At the end of the hall, a tall window overlooked the upper level of the parking garage. The nurse slowed to let a man with a mop bucket pass, and I glanced outside.
Stetson was down there between two rows of cars, wearing black basketball shorts and the old Bighorns T-shirt he’d had on when the ambulance came. He’d given me his hoodie before we left Sierra Vista. He paced from one concrete pillar to another, his hands linked on top of his head. He stopped, stared at the ground, and started again.
Uncle Jake leaned against the back of Pops’ Silverado about twenty feet away. He wasn’t following my brother or trying to talk to him. He was just there.
On the next lap, Stetson stopped in the middle of the row and bent forward, his hands braced on his knees. He stayed that way long enough for my stomach to tighten.
Uncle Jake pushed away from the truck and walked over without hurrying. He rested a hand on the back of Stetson’s neck and stayed beside him without saying anything.
Beside me, Chandler had gone still. His hand remained over mine, but he was watching Stetson through the glass. I held on to the zipper pull of my brother’s hoodie, wishing I’d said something to him before the nurse brought me into the assessment room.
The man with the mop bucket passed, and the nurse started forward again. My thigh throbbed with every small bump of the wheelchair. I looked back once before the wall blocked the window.
“Excuse me. One second.”
Dr. Giacherio stood at the far end of the hall with a tablet tucked under his arm and his glasses back on. He looked at Dad and Pops, then at me. His gaze flicked briefly to Chandler’s hand on mine before returning to my face.
“I spoke with Dr. Mehta,” he said. “Orthopedic oncology is coming to see you today, and we’re working on the MRI. We don’t want to wait on this.”
Dad stopped beside my wheelchair, his hand resting on the back of it. “Do you know when?”
“We’re coordinating with imaging now. Someone will update you as soon as we have a time.” Dr. Giacherio looked at me. “Is there anything you want to ask me before I go?”
I had about a thousand. I wanted to know what the MRI would show, whether the fever meant something different now, and why everybody kept using words that came with explanations instead of answers.
I tightened my hand around Chandler’s. “Am I staying here?”
“Yes, we’re admitting you,” he said. “We need to treat the pain and fever and get these tests done. You won’t be going home today.”
Dad squeezed my shoulder before stepping aside so the nurse could continue.
Chandler stayed beside me as we moved down the hallway, his hand still resting over mine. My phone was in the pocket of Stetson’s hoodie, full of messages I hadn’t opened. I left it there and asked the nurse how far we had to go.