“I’m getting sicker. I’m all alone. Everybody here’s fucked. And there’s a For Sale sign planted at the bottom of our driveway.”

“Wow,” he says, “that’s awful. Do you think maybe you made a mistake going back?”

Like a sad, lonely, hungry fish, I take the bait. “I make a lot of mistakes. This was probably one of them. But whatever, it will all be done soon.”

“Stacey, I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Let you live like this. Or . . . or —”

“Die like this? It’s okay to say the word, Dave. That’s where this is going.”

“Do you remember my buddy Wes? The doctor?” he says.

“The one whose wife curated the art show of placentas?”

“Yes! Remember that! God, we laughed so much.”

Of course. I remember everything.

“I ran into Wes the other day,” Dave goes on. “He asked about you, so I told him. Turns out, there’s some clinical trial on a new tumour treatment here. Really promising stuff.” Dave pauses. “Maybe Wes could pull some strings . . .”

“Dave, I —”

He jumps in before I can finish the thought, which is good because I don’t know what that thought was going to be. “You could live with me . . .” He hesitates, then hurries, “have your own room. I’ll hire a cook. Round the clock nursing support. Whatever you need. No strings attached.”

“There are always strings, Dave.”

“Then maybe that’s the risk you’d have to take,” he says. “I want to help. Make amends. Life is too short. What have you got to lose?”

I tell him I’ll think about it. And maybe I will.

Two cups of tea and a dozen trailer-length shuffles later, Dr. Divyaratna calls, the smooth precision of her Indian accent cutting through my newest daydream: the one where I am anywhere but here, with anyone but myself. My MRI appointment was booked for next week. And now it’s cancelled. My blood work from last week came back. There’s something new to worry about.

“When can you come into the office to discuss the results?” Dr. D. says.

I tell her I don’t know. Her office is over an hour away. It’s frigid and icy and there’s a snowstorm every second day. Mama’s working like a madwoman to keep us afloat, I am not allowed to drive, and all the people who usually drive me places are currently busy being disasters, dickheads, or both.

“Can’t you just tell me?” I plead, staring vacantly out the window, down the driveway at the For Sale sign as it clatters back and forth in the bone-chilling wind. I wonder what the weather’s like in Toronto right now.

Dr. Divyaratna sighs, deep and heavy. Then she rhymes off an alphabet soup of blood test names and the elevated numbers that came back with them. All meaningless.

“Is this good news or bad news?” I ask.

She clears her throat. “It appears that you are pregnant.”