“Show me,” I repeated, my voice thinner than I meant it to be.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small white envelope with my name written on the front in his messy block letters.
My heart started pounding in my ears.
“Jake, what is that?”
“I got this today,” he whispered, and his eyes were shining in a way that had nothing to do with happiness.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
He pressed the envelope into my hand and stepped back like he was bracing for impact.
My fingers didn’t want to cooperate.
I opened the flap, pulled out a stack of papers, and saw the words that made the room tilt.
Oncology.
Biopsy.
Malignant.
Aggressive.
Stage four.
The letters blurred; my breath went somewhere far away.
“Jake,” I managed, my throat burning, “what is this?”
He sank down onto the edge of the bed like his legs had given out.
“I have cancer,” he said, and somehow the word sounded smaller coming from him than it had on the page.
I sat down, too, because the floor didn’t feel safe anymore.
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