Seventh Floor

Monsieur Montreuil was up at the board conjugating verbs when the PA system crackled to life.

At first, it wasn’t my name. Just the sound of the system coming on, that brief moment of static that made everyone in every classroom glance up instinctively, and then: Sloane Deshazo, please come to the main office. Bring your things.

Bring your things.

Those words shifted everything. Not just please come to the office, which could mean anything, a permission slip, a schedule change, a message from someone who needed to talk to you at a bad time. Bring your things meant you weren’t coming back. Bring your things was a statement that ended with a period.

I was already reaching for my bag when Monsieur Montreuil shot me a look that was carefully neutral, the kind teachers wore when they knew something but had been told to keep quiet. I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, and the whole class heard it, twenty-two pairs of eyes turning to me with the kind of curiosity that only teenagers have when they’ve just been given something to think about.

Tahni was in this class. She was three rows over, and while she didn’t turn all the way around, I could feel her eyes following me from the side, that instinctive awareness she had, always knowing what was going on without seeming to pay attention.

Emory was two seats behind me. I didn’t glance at him as I left, but I was sure without looking that he wasn’t caught up in the same idle curiosity as the rest of the class. Emory focused on people he actually knew. I reached the door, pushed it open, and the hallway was empty and silent in that way that only happens during class, that particular stillness that felt like it was borrowed from another place.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see his face because it would show me he already sensed something was wrong, and if I saw that confirmed in his expression before I had a chance to brace myself, I knew it would be much harder to handle whatever was coming next.

Dad was waiting in the main office. He was speaking quietly with the attendance secretary when I walked in, and he paused when he noticed me, giving me that look where he stared just a moment too long before breaking into a smile.

I recognized that look. I had been keeping track of it since Sunday.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, which wasn’t exactly a yes, but it was the best I could manage.

Children’s Hospital Colorado was a forty-minute drive from the school. I took the passenger seat in the Suburban, with Pops in the back, and I watched as the suburbs transitioned into the highway, then into the unique architecture of Aurora, with its glass and brick buildings and the mountains looming behind everything, always there, massive and completely unconcerned with what was happening in front of them. I reflected on how many times I had passed the exit for this hospital without giving it a second thought. It had just been a sign to me.

The seventh floor didn’t match my expectations. I’m not sure what I had anticipated, maybe something more intense, a clear sign that this was where serious matters took place. Instead, it was just a hallway with regular-sized corridors, a nurses’ station with a whiteboard, and a waiting area that tried to feel welcoming, painted in blues and greens, the kind of colors that seemed to be chosen based on research into what shades felt least like fear. There were kids sitting in some of the chairs. Some appeared to be fine, while others didn’t, and I forced myself not to stare, because whatever they were dealing with was theirs to handle, not mine at the moment.

I focused on the whiteboard instead.

Dr. Giacherio was a petite woman with dark hair tied back and reading glasses resting on her forehead. She had the demeanor of someone who had communicated many serious matters and had mastered the art of doing so without dulling the truth or exaggerating it into something dramatic. She extended her hand to me first, before Dad or Pops, which caught me off guard, and inquired about my sleep.

“Fine,” I replied.

She nodded as if she had heard that response many times before and chose not to contest it. “Let’s discuss what we’re observing.”

On the wall, she displayed the X-ray, the same one Dr. Danielson had shown us on Sunday, revealing my femur in a shape that seemed out of place. Next to it, she had the CBC results ready. She went through them carefully, not too fast or too slow, just at a pace that indicated she understood how much information a room could handle at once and how to adjust accordingly.

“The LDH elevation is significant,” she stated. “When combined with the imaging, the location and edges of the mass, along with the timeline of symptoms you’ve described.” She paused. It wasn’t the same kind of pause Dr. Danielson had used, which felt cautious. This was a different kind, the pause of someone prioritizing accuracy over comfort. “All signs at this point strongly suggest malignancy. I want to be upfront about that while also making it clear that we don’t have a confirmed diagnosis yet. That’s what the workup is for.”

Malignancy.

The term lingered in the air. Dad’s hand found mine beneath the table. I allowed him to hold it and kept my gaze fixed on Dr. Giacherio because if I glanced at either of my dads right now, I would completely lose my focus.

“What does the workup entail?” Pops asked. His tone was entirely steady. He maintained a military composure in the face of the worst Tuesday of his life.

Dr. Giacherio listed everything in sequence: biopsy of the mass, repeat LDH test, MRI of the leg, PET scan, CT scan. Five separate tasks, each requiring its own appointment, its own waiting area, its own version of sitting still while someone searched for the shape of whatever might be going on inside you. She mentioned that the biopsy would probably be set for later in the week. The others would follow after that.

“We’ll move as fast as we can,” she said. “I understand what the waiting feels like.”

She said it plainly, without trying to show empathy, and it felt different than if she had made a bigger deal out of it.

“One question,” Dad asked. “Family history. Is there anything we should be concerned about on our side?”

“Good question. Is there any history of bone tumors or sarcomas in the family?”

“Not on my side.” Dad looked at me for a moment. “Sloane was carried by a surrogate. We have the initial health screening from the birth mother, but we don’t have a complete medical history.”

Dr. Giacherio wrote something down. “That’s not unusual, and it doesn’t necessarily matter. The type of tumor we’re examining usually doesn’t have a strong hereditary link. But it’s good to note.” She turned to me. “Do you have any questions?”

I had about a thousand questions. They were all mixed up in a way that I couldn’t separate them into clear sentences yet, a tightly wound knot of what does this mean and what happens next and how do I and I can’t. None of it was ready to be spoken.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“That’s fine. Write them down when they come to you. Bring the list to the next appointment.”

As I walked out through the seventh-floor hallway, past the nurses’ station and the soothing blues and greens, past a kid my age sitting in a chair with his mom next to him, I kept my gaze straight ahead and thought: I came in here forty minutes ago, and my life is not the same as it was. I don’t know how to manage that and still keep moving, but apparently I can, because here I am. Walking.

Dad kept the elevator door open.

I stepped inside.

In the parking garage, before we reached the Suburban, Dad paused. He just stood there in the middle of the concrete, wedged between a minivan and a pickup truck, in the specific nowhere of a hospital parking lot. He covered his mouth with his hand.

I stood beside him in silence. There was nothing to say. After a moment, he lowered his hand, straightened up, and transformed into the person who would take charge of the situation. I watched him make that choice in real time, like seeing someone lift something heavy again after they had set it down, and it was one of the toughest things I’d ever witnessed.

Pops placed a hand on his shoulder. Dad covered it with his own. They remained like that for a moment while I focused on the concrete floor.

We climbed into the Suburban.

I was lounging on the sofa with Bernard sprawled across my lap when my phone lit up. Three fifteen, which meant school had just ended.

Chandler: come get coffee with me.

Not asking if I was okay. Not inquiring what had happened. Just come get coffee with me, as if it were any other Tuesday, like today was just another Tuesday.

I replied: I’m in sweats.

He texted back: I know. Come anyway.

I glanced at the TV. I looked at Bernard. Bernard raised his head and stared at me with the look of a dog who had been used as a weighted blanket for two hours and had strong opinions about that coming to an end.

“Sorry,” I said to him.

I found my slides by the door.

Chandler arrived in the Jeep ten minutes later. He had his window down, elbow resting out, and he looked just like himself, which was somehow both clear and essential. I got in, and he didn’t say a word, just drove out of the driveway. The Jeep smelled like ocean mist and mint, mixed with that unique scent of the Jeep itself—old receipts, worn leather, and whatever that specific car smell was that you stopped noticing when it was someone you’d known your entire life.

Java Junction was just twelve minutes away, located at the intersection of Main Street and the older section of downtown. It was a single-story brick building with a faded yellow smiley face painted on the side wall, a fixture there since before either of us had our licenses. There was a small parking lot across the street. Chandler managed to parallel-park perfectly on his first attempt without making a fuss about it.

He ordered for both of us at the counter. A honey lavender cold brew, which was my exact choice, and his usual drink, and he paid before I even had a chance to pull out my card.

“Chandler.”

“It’s five dollars.” He grabbed both cups and handed mine to me without making eye contact, already turning towards the door. “Save the speech.”

Outside, under the green awning with the string lights already lit, we combined two metal tables and sat across from each other. The street was just doing its usual Tuesday thing, steady and unremarkable. There was a slight breeze coming from the block. It was the kind of evening that felt completely unaware.

Chandler had both elbows resting on the table, gazing at something down the street. He wasn’t trying to act casual; he was genuinely relaxed, taking up just the right amount of space.

I took a sip of the cold brew. It was a mix of honey and lavender with that unique Java Junction sweetness that was never overwhelming, cold all the way through. My shoulders relaxed a bit.

“Nice outfit,” he commented, still not looking at me.

I glanced down at my sweats. Emberwolves printed down the side, faded from a hundred washes, bleach stain near the hem. “You said to come anyway.”

“I did.” He finally looked at me for a brief moment. “You look fine, Sloane.”

The way he said it felt like a compliment, yet it also wasn’t, and I focused on my cup.

He was aware of the ER visit. Stetson had called him on Sunday night, just like Jake. He knew I had an appointment today, but he didn’t know what the appointment had revealed.

I took another sip of the cold brew and let him avoid asking.

He lifted his own cup and downed half of it in two quick gulps, as if staying hydrated was an urgent issue.

“You’re going to get a headache,” I said.

“I’m always okay.” He placed the cup down, a hint of amusement in his face. “Have your coffee, Sloane.”

The string lights buzzed softly. I recalled Dr. Giacherio’s voice saying all signs strongly suggest, the outline on the X-ray, and my dads waiting in the parking garage, while I held the cup and let the evening unfold as it would.

The quiet between us wasn’t heavy. It was simply silence, the type that exists between people who have known each other long enough that it doesn’t need to be filled with words.

I thought: he knows part of it but not everything, and he’s still here, and the cup feels cold in my hands while the lights above are warm, yet I still can’t find the words to say.

It was already feeling quite real.

A couple strolled by the awning with a dog that paused to sniff the table leg before being gently pulled along. The evening was arriving slowly, taking its sweet time.

“You don’t have to share anything tonight,” Chandler said softly, still gazing at the street.

“I understand,” I replied.

“Alright.”

He finished his coffee. I glanced at the string lights and took another sip of mine.