I’ve been waiting a week for this appointment, and every single day has been torture. Between the anxiety around what the MRI might find and missing Declan so much it feels like my heart is being slowly cut to pieces every day he’s gone, I’ve been completely overwhelmed.

I’ve lain awake in bed for hours every night, wondering if I made the right choice pushing him away. Every morning, the first thing I do is check my phone, half-hoping to see his name, half-dreading it because I don’t know what I’d say.

And on top of the hole in my heart, I’ve also been grappling with the idea that I might soon have to tell my parents they could be losing another child.

A tear streaks from the corner of my eye as emotions surge through my chest, and Melissa makes a little sympathetic noise. “Aw, it’s okay, don’t cry. It looks and sounds so much scarier than it actually is, and it’ll be over fast. All you need to worry about is staying as still as possible.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I manage with a wobbly smile.

“You’re right, it is,” she acknowledges with surprising honesty. “But I’ve seen thousands of people go through this machine, and the anticipation is always worse than the experience.”

You’re not the one potentially facing what my brother went through, I think, my stomach twisting. The image of Casey in his hospital bed flashes through my mind—all those machines, all those tests that led nowhere but heartbreak.

Melissa chuckles. “That’s why we have the music. What do you like to listen to?”

I would shrug, but I can’t really move on this slab. I peer over at her as she lifts my legs to put a little wedge pillow beneath them like I’m going for a massage. “Classical or jazz or something easy.”

“Great choice,” Melissa says and winks at me. “You’re going to be fine. You’re in good hands.”

“I’m holding you to that,” I whisper as some gentle piano music starts twinkling inside the machine. It doesn’t do much to calm my chaotic emotions, but it does help things feel at least a little less oppressive inside this claustrophobic space. At least the soundtrack is soothing if I’m about to face life-altering news.

“We’re ready when you are. Are you situated?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly to try to calm my pounding heart.

“See you soon,” Melissa says and presses a button on the control panel. The slab starts sliding slowly into the machine, and she gives me an encouraging smile as I pass her.