“See where being positive landed me? I didn’t think I’d have the courage to speak to you. But as I read your wonderful book I kept telling myself, This is your chance to change your life. And William Barnes seems such a nice man.”

“Well, I can’t promise anything,” he said. Thinking nice didn’t make you successful in the cut-throat business of publishing. Talent trumped nice.

“Of course, I expect nothing. You’ll probably tell me, ‘Orelia, this is terrible. Forget it.’ At least I’ll know then. Maybe you can give me a few tips? Or your talent and luck will rub off on me, do you think?”

“Who knows?” he said, thinking, you’ll need more than my luck to succeed.

Much later, William would remember the glow of her face as he said this, and in hindsight he wondered at his naivety and prophetic talent.

11

The chemotherapy was son-of-a-bitch-bad.

Alan West had no idea you could puke that much and survive. But that was nothing compared to the stem-cell transplant, which was a peculiar torture. The crap those doctors put him through had him sobbing like a baby many nights and even days.

If anyone had caught him crying, he'd threaten them with extinction. Right now though, he didn’t have the energy to raise his middle finger to a soul.

The transplant was bullshit.

This he chanted under his breath for near on three weeks. He also shared this opinion with the nurses and doctors who would listen in silence. Their lack of response told him they didn’t care. Maybe they enjoyed his pain. They sure seemed to be entertained as they walked around him, pushing and prodding, as though he was a wax dummy.

When the doc said he’d lose his appetite that was a lie.

You didn’t lose your hunger. You simply forced yourself not to eat because you knew everything placed in your mouth would come straight back as a hundred miles an hour projectile vomit.

Ten days in the ulcers bloomed, like mushrooms after rain. You can't eat when every bite is a bee sting on your tongue or your gums or even your fucking throat.

Then came the itch.

Oh my God! The itch of shingles all over his body. Everywhere on his skin these nightmare blisters appeared, as if the queen of mosquitoes and her tribe had descended on him for lunch.

Then the fever would hit, and he’d shake and shiver and wish for a quick death. This sometimes heralded the psycho trip, where he imagined himself floating down a river surrounded by exotic tropical trees. The cool of the air and the boat gently rocking gave him relief and a wonderful sense of freedom. Until without warning a swarm of wasps appeared from nowhere and stung the hell out of him.

He fought them off, arms flailing in the air, which only attracted more of the little terror-shits. With each sting his skin swelled, until his limbs were two overstuffed sausages. He stared at the swollen biceps—which he’d spent a fortune tattooing—and thought I’ll have to get those inked again. Each time he got to that part of his nightmare, the skin on his arms would burst in a shower of blood, skin and thick, yellow, sticky gore.