Page 125 of Break Me

“Most patients do,” he says. “There’s usually a sense.”

The room feels impossibly small.

I look at her. She’s staring straight ahead. Taking it in like she’s memorizing instructions. Like she’s planning. And I realize something with a cold, sinking certainty⁠—

She’s not asking because she’s afraid.

She’s asking because she’s deciding.

The doctor folds his hands. “I want to be clear about something,” he says. “You do not have to decide today.”

I feel Raven’s hand shift slightly in mine.

“There are options,” he continues. “Chemotherapy. Palliative care. We can connect you with our oncology social worker. We also have specialized therapists who work specifically with patients facing advanced diagnoses.”

Therapists.

It sounds obscene in the face of weeks.

“I’d strongly recommend you go home,” he says. “Talk together. We can schedule another appointment in a few days. You don’t need to make a decision in this room.”

Raven inhales slowly. “What happens if we wait?” she asks.

“A few days won’t meaningfully change the course of the disease,” he says honestly. “This is aggressive, but it’s not measured in hours.”

Measured in weeks.

I swallow.

“We’ll support whatever choice you make,” he says. “Aggressive treatment. Or focusing on quality of life.”

Quality of life.

That phrase lands hard.

He slides a folder across the desk. “This has all the information about chemotherapy and palliative care.”

Hospice.

The word is there.

Quiet. Printed. Real.

Raven takes the folder. Her hands are steady. “Thank you,” she says.

And that thank you almost breaks me more than anything else has.

Samuel

The parking lot outside the oncology center looks exactly the same as it did when we pulled in. Cars angled neatly between white lines. A woman talking on her phone near the entrance. Someone laughing too loudly at something that doesn’t matter.

The air has shifted since morning. Early September does that. It cools just enough to hint at something ending. There’s a faint dryness to it now, like summer has started loosening its grip.

Raven walks beside me without reaching for my hand. Not because she’s pulling away. Because she’s holding herself together.

I unlock the truck, and Raven climbs in while I make my way around to the driver's side. For a moment, I just sit there, my hands resting on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything.

When I finally start the engine, the sound fills the cab, too loud against everything neither of us knows how to say.