But inside a quiet consultation room on the thirty-second floor of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, the life Nathaniel Carrington believed he controlled had just fractured beyond repair.
The doctors spoke calmly. That was the worst part.
They explained that Ava Carrington, twelve years old, had advanced leukemia. The treatments that once held promise were no longer working. There would still be care—pain management, supportive therapies, anything to keep her comfortable—but the word cure had quietly disappeared from every medical conversation.
Nathaniel listened as though someone had replaced the air in the room with water.
Three months.
Possibly four if complications stayed away.
Maybe less.
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