Nobody had touched the tissue box.
It sat in the middle of the table in Dr. Giacherio’s consult room, still sealed, angled toward my chair. I looked at it, then away.
The chairs were soft and low. Dad started to help me into one, then looked at how far I’d have to lower myself and asked if I’d rather stay in the wheelchair. I nodded. He adjusted the pillow beneath my left leg before sitting beside me, still wearing the button-down he’d put on for work that morning. He hadn’t gone in.
Pops sat on my other side in his fleece vest and the gray sneakers he wore whenever somebody in our family ended up at a hospital. His knee bounced until he put a hand on it.
Stetson stayed by the wall, holding his phone in both hands. The screen had gone dark. He hadn’t noticed.
Dr. Giacherio came in carrying a folder. Dr. Mehta followed him. She pulled a chair close enough that she could look at me without leaning across the table. I tucked my hands into the sleeves of Stetson’s hoodie while they settled in.
Dr. Giacherio sat. His tie had tiny cartoon turtles on it. I wondered whether he owned a whole drawer of ties like that, then stopped myself. It didn’t matter.
“We have the results from your biopsy,” he said. “I’ll explain what they show, and then we can talk about treatment. You can stop me whenever you need to.”
Dad nodded, and Pops stopped bouncing his knee.
“Sloane, the biopsy shows Ewing sarcoma. It’s a type of cancer that starts in bone or the soft tissue around it. In your case, the tumor is in your left femur.”
For a second, I didn’t understand the sentence. I understood every word individually. I just couldn’t get them to stand next to each other and make sense.
Dad’s hands tightened around his phone. Pops said, “No,” so quietly I wasn’t sure anyone else heard it. Stetson pushed away from the wall, then stopped, like he’d forgotten where he meant to go.
“Ewing sarcoma,” I repeated, looking at Dr. Giacherio. “That’s the name?”
“Yes.”
I turned toward Dr. Mehta. She waited, her hands resting loosely on her knees, while I tried to decide what to ask first.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “The biopsy and the specialized tests on the sample confirm it.”
I nodded, although I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to. The word sarcoma kept repeating in my head. I mouthed it once without making a sound, trying to remember how he’d said it.
Dad leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “What about the rest of her? The chest scan?”
Dr. Giacherio opened the folder. “The chest CT didn’t show any spread to her lungs. That’s encouraging. We still need more scans to check the rest of her body.”
“So it could just be in her leg?” Pops asked.
“It could. If we don’t find it anywhere else, we call it localized. But we need those results before we can say that.”
Pops sat back, pressing his lips together. I stared at the turtles on Dr. Giacherio’s tie. One of them had flipped onto its back.
“So what happens?” I asked.
“We’ll talk through a treatment plan with our pediatric oncology and orthopedic oncology teams,” he said. “Ewing sarcoma is usually treated with chemotherapy and treatment directed at the original tumor. The chemotherapy comes first. Later, depending on how the tumor responds and what surgery would mean for your leg, we may recommend surgery, radiation, or a combination.”
Dr. Mehta shifted her chair closer to the table. “My job is to think about the tumor and the bone around it. Right now, that part of your femur is vulnerable. I need you to keep using the wheelchair and crutches exactly as we’ve discussed, with no weight on that leg until we tell you otherwise.”
“Even just to stand up?” I asked.
“Even then. Have someone help you transfer.”
Dad wrote that down.
He asked about a port, and Pops wanted to know when treatment would begin. Dr. Giacherio explained that they’d arrange the remaining tests, review the plan with us, and schedule a procedure to place a port before chemotherapy. He talked about cycles, blood counts, infection precautions, and hospital stays. Dad opened a note on his phone so quickly his thumb slipped on the screen.
I tried to follow the conversation, but the words kept piling up. I’d barely learned the name of what was wrong with me, and now they were discussing months of treatment.
“How long?” I asked.
“Treatment often takes many months, sometimes close to a year,” Dr. Giacherio said. “We’ll give you a clearer schedule once the team has finalized your plan.”
I tried to count forward. Next semester. Summer. The start of junior year. I’d been worrying about the work I’d missed this week.
“What does that mean for volleyball? After treatment?” I asked.
Dad turned toward me. “Fiorellina.”
“I know I can’t play now,” I said. “I mean later.”
Dr. Mehta met my eyes. “That will depend on the treatment your leg needs and how it heals. We’ll work with rehabilitation specialists, too, but I can’t promise today when or whether you’ll be able to return.”
My volleyball shoes were still upstairs, exactly where I’d left them after practice. I could picture them beside my bedroom door, one tipped over, both laces tied. I’d expected to need them again.
The next question was harder to ask, mostly because I already knew what the answer would probably be.
“What about Happy Paws?”
Dr. Giacherio paused. “During treatment, there will be times when your immune system is weakened. An animal shelter has infection risks that we’ll need to take seriously. For now, I don’t want you working there in person. As your treatment progresses, we’ll reassess what activities are safe.”
“Even if I stay in the training room?”
“I know that place matters to you,” he said. “We’ll figure out ways for you to stay involved that don’t put you at risk. But I don’t want you walking dogs or handling animals there right now.”
Dashiell’s evaluation was March 21. I’d spent weeks teaching him that a person could walk into a room without being a threat. He was finally letting Chandler sit close enough to hold a leash.
I looked toward the window. By the time March came around, Dashiell might be ready for his evaluation, and I had no idea whether I’d be allowed to watch.
“Can Bernard still sleep in my room?” I asked.
“He can stay in your room,” Dr. Giacherio said. “Wash your hands after petting him, and don’t let him lick your face, your biopsy site, or the port once it’s placed. Someone else should handle cleaning up after him.”
“Stetson’s going to love that.”
Pops squeezed my hand. “We’ll handle it.”
“Keep up with his vet care, too,” the doctor added. “If he gets sick, let us know. We’ll go over any extra precautions you need during treatment.”
The doctors kept talking. They answered Dad’s questions about scheduling and gave him a number to call if I developed a fever or new symptoms. They told us we’d meet with the wider care team, and that someone would help us with school arrangements.
Dad typed everything into his phone. Pops asked for a printed copy, too, and Dr. Giacherio promised we’d leave with one. Stetson hadn’t moved from the wall.
I wanted to ask whether I’d still go to school with everybody else. Whether I could still sit at our lunch table on days I felt well enough. Before I could get either question out, Dad asked about the next test. I waited until Dr. Giacherio finished answering, then asked for a pen.
Dad handed me his, and I turned over an appointment sheet. On the blank side, I wrote the name carefully, one word at a time.
Ewing sarcoma.
I kept the pen pressed against the paper until the period spread into a dark spot.
Stetson didn’t speak in the elevator. He didn’t speak when we passed the mural with the fox in the scarf, either. He walked beside my wheelchair, close enough that his hand kept brushing the push handle, although Pops was the one steering.
In the parking garage, Dad went ahead to unlock the Suburban. Pops stopped to rearrange the pillow under my leg. Stetson stood beside a concrete pillar, staring at the floor.
“You can sit in the car,” I told him.
He shook his head without looking up.
“Dad’s opening it.”
“I know.” He turned away and put his phone in his pocket.
“Stet?” I called, watching him put both hands on top of his head. His shoulders rose, held there, then dropped. He kept his back to me.
Pops touched his arm. “Hey, buddy.”
“I can’t do anything,” Stetson said.
Pops didn’t answer right away, and Stetson turned toward us. His eyes were wet, and he looked furious about it.
“She’s been hurting for months, and I couldn’t fix it. Now they’re talking about chemo and surgery, and I can’t even do one thing.” He looked at me. “I’m supposed to be the big brother.”
“By three minutes,” I said.
He let out a breath. “That’s not the point.”
His mouth moved, but no smile came out. He crouched in front of my chair and put his forehead against my good knee, careful to avoid the other one.
I rested my hand against the back of his head. Pops stayed close, but I couldn’t see his face from where I sat.
“You don’t have to fix it,” I told him finally.
“I know,” he said, but he didn’t lift his head. I kept my hand where it was.
Dad came back from the Suburban, took one look at Stetson, and put the keys back in his pocket. For a minute, nobody tried to move us along.
On the drive home, Stetson sat next to me in the back seat. He kept one hand on the edge of the pillow supporting my leg whenever we turned, as if he could stop the road from jostling it. When I shifted, he asked if he was making it worse. I shook my head and let him keep his hand there.
At home, Pops helped me into the guest room. Bernard was waiting beside my bed, his tail sweeping the floor as I transferred from the wheelchair. The second I settled against the pillows, he pressed himself along my good side.
“You’re allowed,” I told him, scratching behind his ears. “Apparently, you’re the medically approved dog.”
He sighed and put his chin on my hip.
My phone had been vibrating in my hoodie pocket all day. When I finally looked, I had messages from Noelle, Tinsley, Maekynzie, and Emory, plus several missed calls.
Noelle: sloane where are you
Noelle: you’re not at school again
Noelle: stetson isn’t answering either
Maekynzie: okay somebody PLEASE tell me what’s happening
Emory: mae has texted me four times. someone answer her
Maekynzie: I HAVE NOT
Tinsley: you don’t have to explain. just tell us you’re home
Noelle: please text me
I stared at the last message until the letters blurred.
They deserved to know. I knew that. But the minute I told them, I’d have to hear the words out loud again, and I wasn’t ready to watch my friends learn how to look at me differently.
I opened Tinsley’s conversation first.
Me: i’m home. i’m safe. can you tell everyone? i can’t talk yet
Her reply came almost immediately.
Tinsley: yes. no questions. love you
I set the phone down, then picked it up again and opened Chandler’s thread.
Me: can you take me somewhere quiet?
I looked at it for a long time before pressing send. Not because I didn’t trust him. I knew he’d come if he could. I was afraid of what I’d say once he did.
Chandler: Yeah. Give me a few minutes.
Chandler: Are your dads okay with it?
I looked toward the kitchen. I hadn’t asked them yet.
Me: working on that
Pops was at the kitchen island with his laptop open when I wheeled myself into the doorway. He closed it too quickly to pretend he hadn’t been reading about Ewing sarcoma. Dad stood nearby, drying the same mug he’d been drying since I came in.
“Chandler’s coming,” I said. “I need to get out for a little bit.”
Pops straightened. “Sunshine, you’ve had a long day.”
“I know. I just don’t want to sit in my room right now.”
“We could sit on the deck,” he offered. “I’ll make cocoa.”
“I love you, but I really don’t want cocoa.”
Dad set the mug down and came around the island. “Where would you go?”
“Blue Heron Lake. We can park in the west lot and see the water from the Jeep.”
“Where Jake used to take you fishing?”
“Yeah.” I rested my hands on the wheelchair rims. “We won’t get out.”
Pops rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d rather have you here.”
“I just need to be somewhere else for a minute. Please.”
He looked at Dad, who rested a hand on the back of my chair. Neither said anything for a moment, and I waited without adding another promise.
“One hour,” Dad said. “Keep your phone on. If your leg starts hurting more, come home.”
“I will.” I looked at Pops, waiting until he nodded before letting myself relax.
He bent and kissed the top of my head, then went to find my jacket. Dad pushed me toward the front door while I texted Chandler that they’d said yes.
Chandler pulled into the cul-de-sac a few minutes later. He came up the porch steps in his soccer hoodie and a heavy green jacket, then held the door while Dad brought my wheelchair through.
“Don’t you work tonight?” I asked.
“I asked off earlier this week.”
“Why?” I looked up at him as he stepped back to give Dad room to turn my chair.
“I knew you had the appointment.” He held the door until Pops came through with my jacket, then let it close behind him.
“Hey, bud.” Pops laid the jacket across my lap while Dad pulled the folded blanket from behind my back.
“Hey, Uncle Zack.” Chandler took the blanket when Dad offered it and tucked it under his arm.
“She’ll need that under her leg,” Dad said.
Chandler looked at me. “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready.” I got my hands around the wheelchair rims while he went ahead to open the Jeep and move the passenger seat back.
Dad and Chandler carried the wheelchair down the porch steps between them, with me in it. Then Dad helped me transfer while Chandler kept the chair steady. Once I was settled, Chandler passed him the blanket, and Dad folded it beneath my leg.
“Tell me if that needs moving,” Dad said.
“It’s good. Thanks.” I shifted back against the seat while Chandler folded the wheelchair and secured it in the back.
Pops leaned into the open doorway. “Text when you get there.”
“I will.” I spread my jacket over my lap, leaving my left leg where Dad had positioned it.
Dad stepped back so Pops could shut the door, then looked across the roof at Chandler. “Home in an hour.”
“See you in a bit, Uncle Nick.” Chandler walked around to the driver’s side while Pops tapped the roof twice and moved onto the path.
Chandler got behind the wheel and set his phone in the console beside mine. My dads were still standing on the path when we pulled out of the cul-de-sac.
Chandler pulled into the west parking lot at Blue Heron Lake and took the space closest to the wooden railing. Beyond it, the water stretched toward the darkening mountains, reflecting the last pink streaks of sunset. A great blue heron stood among the reeds near the shoreline. Chandler shifted into park but left the heater running.
“There’s one,” he said, nodding toward the water.
“I see him.” I leaned forward a little, careful not to move my leg.
“You used to make us stop talking whenever one showed up.”
“Because you scared them away.”
“Stetson scared them away.” Chandler glanced at me, waiting for me to admit it.
“You encouraged him.” I settled back against the seat while he smiled, then texted Pops that we’d arrived. He sent back three hearts and a reminder about my leg. I told him I was staying in the Jeep and put my phone in my lap.
Chandler rested his hands on the steering wheel, then leaned back. The radio stayed off, and he didn’t ask about the appointment. The heron took a careful step through the water while I tried to work out how to start.
“It’s called Ewing sarcoma,” I said. Chandler turned toward me, but I kept looking through the windshield. “Bone cancer. In my left femur. They tested the biopsy, and they’re sure.”
I traced the seam of the seat with one finger. I’d gone over the doctor’s words on the drive home, but now I kept losing my place.
“The chest scan didn’t show anything in my lungs. They still need more scans to check everywhere else. Then a port and chemo. Maybe surgery or radiation later.” I stopped and swallowed before adding, “And I can’t play volleyball or go to Happy Paws. I don’t know how much school I’m going to miss.”
Chandler looked down at his hands, then back at me. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” I was glad he stopped there and gave me a minute.
“I kept waiting for him to say there’d been a mistake,” I admitted. “Like they’d mixed up my biopsy with somebody else’s. Which is stupid, because that would mean somebody else had it.”
“It’s not stupid.” He shifted toward me, his shoulder resting against the seat.
“I wrote the name down. On a piece of paper. As if I’d forget it.” I let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one. “I can’t even pronounce my own cancer without thinking about it first.”
Chandler looked out across the water. “You don’t have to know everything tonight.”
“That’s unfortunate. I was going to become a pediatric oncologist by nine.” He let out a small laugh, and I looked toward the window, smiling until my eyes started burning again.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The heron bent toward the water, then straightened without catching anything.
“Stetson cried in the parking garage,” I said. “Don’t tell him I told you.”
“I won’t.” Chandler looked over at me again.
“He keeps acting like he’s supposed to fix it.”
Chandler rubbed his thumb along the seam of his sleeve. “He does that.”
“You do, too.”
“Not as loudly.”
“Nobody does anything as loudly as Stetson.” Chandler smiled, but it faded as he looked down at my leg.
“What do you need?” he asked.
I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted the biopsy to be wrong, and I wanted to go to practice tomorrow. None of that was anything he could help with. I looked at him instead of the water.
“Normal Pact,” I said. “I asked you to talk to me normally. I still mean it.”
“I remember.” He waited.
“So don’t start agreeing with everything I say just because I have cancer.”
“I wasn’t agreeing with you before.”
“You were being really nice.”
“I can stop.” He said it so seriously that I laughed, then wiped my face with my sleeve.
“Not completely.”
He smiled a little. “I’ll figure it out.”
Chandler reached across the console and held out his hand. I slid my fingers into his, resting our hands between the seats. He watched the heron disappear into the reeds while I looked at the water, which had gone almost dark beneath the mountains.
My phone buzzed in my lap twice. I picked it up with my free hand and opened Noelle’s messages.
Noelle: tinsley said you’re home
Noelle: i’m declaring an emergency sleepover tomorrow
Noelle: your room. i’ll bring snacks. you can tell me nothing if that’s what you want
Chandler glanced over while I read the last message again. “Everything okay?”
“Noelle’s threatening me with friendship.”
“Sounds serious.”
“She’s bringing snacks, so I guess I’ll allow it.” I rested the phone against my thigh and typed with one thumb.
Me: bring the good pretzels
Her answer arrived before I could lock the screen.
Noelle: already packed them
I leaned my head against the seat, still holding Chandler’s hand. Tomorrow I’d have to tell Noelle, and then the others. I didn’t know whether I’d manage it without crying, but I could at least let her come over.
When it was time to leave, I texted Dad that we were heading home. Chandler gave my hand one last squeeze before letting go to shift the Jeep into drive, and I tucked both hands into the sleeves of Stetson’s hoodie.