By the end of July, nobody could find the spot in my lung anymore, and Dad had a hospital in Texas open on his laptop.
The first good sign was my hair. Stetson noticed it before I did, technically. He leaned over me at breakfast to steal the last piece of my toast, stopped, and laid his palm on top of my head.
“Dude,” he said. “You’re growing a lawn.” I told him to get off, but he rubbed my head again before I could swat his hand away. “It’s like a peach. Pops, come feel this.”
“Do not come feel my head,” I told the kitchen, reaching for the toast he’d already stolen.
Pops came anyway, and Dad followed because we were having a family meeting about my scalp. Bernard tried to join in and was escorted away for excessive enthusiasm, which left Stetson laughing so hard he nearly dropped his breakfast.
Later, alone in the downstairs bathroom, I rolled my wheelchair close to the sink and tipped my head toward the light. The fuzz was so pale I could barely see it, soft and uneven but definitely there. I ran my hand over it, the texture unfamiliar beneath my fingers, then leaned closer to the mirror to inspect the little patch near my left ear that seemed determined to grow in a different direction from everything else.
I finished sophomore year from the desk in my bedroom, with Mrs. Beckem coming three afternoons a week and leaving her untouched thermos of tea on the windowsill. In the second week of June, she emailed my final grades to Dad with the subject line Tell her I said so. I passed everything, including Algebra II, which meant somewhere in the math wing Mr. Grzywacz had entered a passing grade beside my name. I hoped it caused him at least mild emotional distress.
The week after finals, the volleyball team showed up on our porch. Roxie and Courtney stood at the front in their practice shirts, Coach Mathieson behind them with the volleyball from my locker, the one they’d all signed in October. Pops had helped me settle into the porch swing with my left leg supported, and I read every name again while the team pretended not to watch.
Coach Mathieson had added a new line across a seam in block letters: Outside hitter. Still.
I traced the words with my thumb, remembering Lylah correcting me in the dark when I’d talked about who I used to be. Are. Not was. I looked up at Coach Mathieson, who was pretending to inspect the porch railing while Roxie asked whether I’d watched their last match.
I thanked them without making a speech because I would’ve cried, and then they’d have cried, and Tinsley would’ve declared the whole thing embarrassing. After they left, I put the ball on the shelf across from my bed, where I could see it every morning.
By June, the weather had turned hot and dry, the kind of Colorado heat that made a beanie feel like a punishment. One morning I left Chandler’s gray one on the hook by my door. The next morning I did it again, and eventually it had been there long enough that I stopped noticing it.
A few weeks after the last chemotherapy block scheduled before my July scans, I brought it out to him on the porch. He looked from the beanie to me, then smiled a little.
“Keep it. It likes you better.”
“It’s yours,” I reminded him, holding it out. He said my name in that patient way of his, so I pushed it toward him another inch. “Chandler. I want you to have it back because I don’t need it to feel like myself anymore.”
He took it without arguing, folding it carefully before tucking it into his pocket. His hand stayed over it for a moment, and when he looked at me again, I could tell he understood what I meant without needing me to explain.
Lylah’s wig stayed on its foam head on my dresser. I wasn’t ready to pack it away, although I hadn’t worn it in weeks. Sometimes I’d catch sight of the lilac hair in the mirror and remember her sitting on my hospital bed, announcing that I needed to stop being boring and pick a color that made people stare.
In July, I crossed off number three after finally doing what Lylah had been daring me to do for months.
Wear something that makes people stare, and stare back.
It happened on a Friday evening at Sweet Peaks Creamery, when the line stretched past the picnic tables and half of Sierra Vista Central seemed to have decided ice cream was a group assignment. I wore a white T-shirt and denim shorts, with no wig, no beanie, and no hood. My hair had come back in an uneven, honey-colored fuzz, with a strange little wave above my left ear that I was choosing to call intentional.
Chandler walked beside my wheelchair, one hand resting lightly on the push handle. He was buying, since he still owed me a large. Tinsley was on my other side, arms folded, watching the line like she expected it to start trouble.
Inside, the air-conditioning brushed my scalp, and I resisted the urge to rub my head. A girl from the cheer team looked at me, glanced away, and looked again before nudging the friend beside her.
I knew that look. I’d seen versions of it in hallways, waiting rooms, and grocery stores when I was too tired to pretend I didn’t notice. For months I’d looked away first, as if that might make the moment disappear, but this time I met her eyes and held them. I’m allowed to be here, too. I didn’t look away until she turned back to the menu board.
Tinsley leaned closer, looking far too entertained. “Bold.”
“It’s literally on the list,” I reminded her, glancing toward Chandler, who was pretending not to listen.
“Still counts.”
I laughed, and a couple of people turned toward us. I let them look, then ordered the biggest scoop I thought I could manage and shared half with Chandler because my stomach still hadn’t learned how to be normal about food.
That night, I drew a line through number three on the page tucked beneath my pillow. I read the whole list again, including the things I’d crossed off in a different order than Lylah had written them, and stopped when I reached number nine.
Make a wish somewhere you’re not allowed to.
Number ten was on its own folded page, the one Amber had sent me. I took it from the envelope and smoothed the crease with my thumb, studying Lylah’s turquoise handwriting.
Let someone carry you.
I’d stopped thinking of that one as something I could finish and put away. Some days I was better at asking for help than others, and there were still mornings when I snapped at Pops for hovering before realizing he was only trying to make sure I had everything I needed.
I folded the paper carefully and slipped it back into its envelope. Number nine could wait a little longer, especially since I had no idea where Lylah expected me to make a wish somewhere I wasn’t allowed to be. Knowing Lylah, it was probably somewhere with security cameras.
On Tuesday, July twenty-eighth, I went in to hear what the latest scans showed.
Uncle Jake had driven over with Chandler and waited with us until the nurse called my name. He squeezed my shoulder before we went back and told me he’d be right outside when we finished. Dad sat beside me with his legal pad, and Pops took the chair on my other side. Stetson claimed a seat near the door, with Chandler standing beside him until the nurse asked who I wanted in the room.
“Both of them,” I said, looking from Stetson to Chandler. She nodded, brought over another chair, and left us to wait for Dr. Giacherio.
It shouldn’t have mattered so much, being asked instead of having someone decide for me, but I was glad she’d done it. Stetson settled into the chair beside Chandler, and Dad opened his legal pad even though there wasn’t anything to write down yet.
Dr. Giacherio came in with his tablet and sat on the rolling stool. He pulled up the new images beside the March scans, starting with my chest. I watched his face so closely that I almost missed the screen.
“The small spot we were following in your right lung is no longer visible on today’s imaging,” he said. “And the mass in your left femur has gotten substantially smaller.”
Nobody spoke. I looked at the chest image, trying to find the little spot we’d spent months worrying about, but the screen looked like a collection of gray shapes that made sense to everyone except me.
“Gone?” I asked, looking from the image to Dr. Giacherio.
“Not visible,” he repeated gently. “That’s encouraging, but it isn’t a guarantee. What these scans show is a meaningful response to treatment.”
I looked back at my leg. The tumor was still there, smaller but there. I also knew how long it had been since anyone had brought us news this good.
“So it’s good?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
Dr. Giacherio smiled. “Yes, Sloane. It’s good news. We still have decisions ahead, but you can let this part be good.”
Pops made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Dad had stopped writing, his pen lying across the legal pad, forgotten, and when he took my hand, his fingers were shaking. Chandler sat very still beside the door, his eyes closed for a second before he looked back at the screen.
I waited for Dr. Giacherio to say something that would take it back. I’d gotten used to good news coming with conditions, and I kept watching his face while he gave us a moment to absorb what he’d said. Please don’t take it back. I tightened my grip on Dad’s hand, afraid that if I asked another question, the answer would change.
“What’s next?” I asked, looking at the images again. It was the question I always asked now, even when I wanted to spend the rest of the day pretending there wasn’t a next.
“We’re reviewing the scans with the larger team,” he said. “There are some possibilities I’d like to discuss once we’ve done that. Let’s meet Thursday. I should have more specific information for you then.”
Dad opened his legal pad again. “Is there anything we need to decide before then?” he asked, pen ready.
“Not today. For now, I want you to go home and let yourselves have this news.”
Stetson reached over from his chair and squeezed my shoulder. I looked at the images one more time, at the space where the lung spot had been and the smaller shape in my leg. Nothing about the next steps was settled, but the good part was real, and I wanted to remember exactly what Dr. Giacherio had said.
Uncle Jake stood when we came into the waiting area. He looked from Dad to Pops and then to me, trying to read the news before anybody said it.
“The tumor shrank,” I told him. “And they can’t see the lung spot anymore.”
He crossed the space between us and crouched beside my chair, one hand settling over mine. For once, Uncle Jake, who could yell through an entire soccer game without stopping for air, seemed to have misplaced his words. Chandler put a hand on his shoulder while Dad explained what the doctor had actually said, including the parts we still didn’t know.
Uncle Jake offered to come back with us Thursday. Dad thanked him and said we’d call once we knew the appointment time, while Stetson was already texting Noelle the news with my permission. Pops wanted to tell practically everyone we’d ever met, but I made him wait until we got home. I wanted a little time before my phone started lighting up with messages.
That evening, Chandler drove us up to The Overlook. He parked close to the bench and got my wheelchair out of the Jeep. Chandler steadied the chair, waited while I shifted into it, and made sure my leg was supported before we headed toward the overlook.
The sky over the Front Range was orange at the edges, fading into pink and deep blue. Sierra Vista spread below us, lights appearing street by street. Somewhere down there were our houses, Happy Paws, the school gym, the coffee shop, and the ordinary places I’d missed while my world had shrunk to hospital rooms.
Dash was asleep in the back of the Jeep, nose pressed against the open window, snoring loud enough to be heard from the bench. Chandler sat beside me and repeated the doctor’s words as though he needed to test them in the evening air.
“A meaningful response,” he said, looking toward the mountains.
I smiled. “He said it was good news, too. You can use those words.”
Chandler repeated them louder, startling a bird out of the scrub oak below us. I warned him not to scare the wildlife, and he promised absolutely nothing before leaning back against the bench with a grin.
After a few minutes, he pulled his wallet out and opened it carefully. Inside was a small laminated copy of Lylah’s list, both pages reduced to fit, the sunflower doodle still visible in the corner. He’d borrowed the original the week before and returned it without saying why.
“You laminated it,” I said, taking the little card from him. He confirmed what was already painfully obvious, and I ran my thumb along the sealed edge. “Of course you did. Why?”
He turned it so number ten faced me.
Let someone carry you.
“In case you ever need reminding,” he said, watching me study the words.
I looked at the little sunflower in the corner, remembering Lylah’s handwriting spread across the original page. A few months ago, I would’ve argued that I didn’t need a reminder, then spent the rest of the evening proving otherwise. Tonight, I tucked the card carefully into the pocket of my hoodie and leaned toward Chandler.
I rested my head against his shoulder, and his hand settled gently against the back of my head, where he’d held it in November while the clippers buzzed and my hair fell around us. There was hair beneath his palm now, not much, but enough to feel. He didn’t mention it, and neither did I.
We watched the last light fade while Dash snored in the Jeep. Chandler pointed out a plane crossing the sky, and I tried to guess where it was headed before deciding I didn’t particularly care. I was sitting beside him with good news to take home, and I wasn’t ready to start worrying about Thursday yet.
When Chandler brought me home, the kitchen light was on. Dad and Pops were at the island with a laptop open between them, while Stetson leaned against the counter, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up when Chandler helped me through the kitchen doorway, then moved a chair out of the way so I could roll closer.
“What are we looking at?” I asked, noticing the unfamiliar building on the screen.
Dad turned the laptop toward me. A white building stretched across the page, palm trees lining the entrance. Across the top were the words Gulf Coast Children’s Cancer Institute. Bayview Shore, Texas.
“Dr. Giacherio sent us some information,” Dad said. “It’s a program he wants us to ask about on Thursday. He hasn’t said you qualify.”
“In Texas?” I asked, leaning closer to read the page.
“Apparently.” Dad shifted the laptop so I could see the rest of the website, and Chandler came to stand beside my chair, reading over my shoulder.
The photograph showed a bridge over bright water, the kind of place people went on vacation. Not the kind of place I ever expected to find myself looking for a hospital.
“Does this mean more chemo?” I asked, glancing toward Pops.
“We don’t know yet, Sunshine,” he said. “That’s what Thursday’s for.”
I looked at Dad, who had his legal pad open beside the computer but hadn’t written anything on it yet. He wasn’t hiding a plan. He was trying to understand what we’d been sent, same as the rest of us. Stetson set his phone down and pulled the chair beside him closer to mine.
“All right,” I said, looking back at the building on the screen. “Then Thursday, we ask.”