Chapter 2

The smell of hospital disinfectant could soak right into your bones.

I sat on a blue plastic chair outside the CT room, staring at the back of Dad's head. A few minutes earlier, he'd told Mom, "Don't worry, it's probably just gastritis." Now the hand holding his phone was shaking so hard it was impossible to miss.

"Family of Ethan Carter?" the doctor called.

Mom and Dad stood up at the same time, then turned to look at me at the same time. There was something in that look. I didn't understand it, and I didn't want to.

They followed the doctor into his office, and the door closed. I stared at the no-smoking sign on the white door and decided it was the ugliest sign I'd ever seen.

Ten minutes later, Mom came out first. Her eyes were red, but she had a smile plastered on her face. I knew that smile. It was the one she wore at the farmers' market after haggling a vendor down, pretending it had been easy.

"It's nothing," she said. "The doctor just wants to keep you a few days for observation."

"Observe what?"

"Just... to keep an eye on things." She dodged the question and reached for my hand. "Come on. Let's get you checked in."

I pulled my hand back. "Lena's getting out of school soon. I have to go home and make her dinner. She said she wanted pot roast today."

"I'll make it. I'll cook for your sister." Mom's voice shot up, then quickly dropped. "Just do as you're told."

"What's wrong with me?" I stared at her.

She avoided my eyes and dug through her purse for the insurance card. Her hands were so clumsy she dropped it twice. Dad came out, picked it up, and patted her shoulder.

"Acute leukemia." He said it fast, like he was afraid he'd choke on it if he went slow. "It's treatable."

I was fifteen, not five. I knew what leukemia was, and I knew how much money hid behind that one word, "treatable."

"How much?" I asked.

"Don't worry about that," Dad said. "You just focus on getting better."

"Lena has her exams coming up."

Nobody answered.

Patients and families streamed up and down the hallway. Some carried takeout containers, some carried kids. Everyone was busy. Only the three of us stood frozen in place, like someone had hit pause on us.

That night, I was admitted to a four-bed room. The old man in the next bed coughed all night like he was trying to hack up a lung. My bed was by the window. I looked at the lit windows in the building across the street, square after square, like a chessboard.

My phone buzzed. It was Lena. "Where's dinner? Where the hell are you?"

I stared at the message. I typed, deleted, typed again. Finally, I sent: "Gaming at a friend's place. Forgot. Make yourself some instant noodles."

She replied, "Get lost," with an eye-roll emoji.

I pressed the phone to my chest and closed my eyes. The sheets reeked of disinfectant. I couldn't smell Mom's pot roast anymore.