WE WAITED for hours. The doctor took a few vials of blood, whisking it away to the lab for immediate analysis. Josh went in for an MRI. Another bag of fluids. More blood tests. Nate arrived at some point. My phone was still at the clinic, but Moira had called him, although only after snidely commenting that I should’ve thought of Nate sooner.

I ran to him and let him fold me in his arms. We sat in silence next to Josh’s bed, our fingers laced tightly together. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to consciously think about what those bruises might mean.

Finally a new doctor, Dr. Johnson, came in with Josh’s chart. He was older, round, with fat cheeks and orange stains on his lab coat, as if he’d been wiping Cheetos dust down the front.

“Hi, Mom, Dad, why don’t you come out here, and we’ll have a chat. Let’s let Josh keep resting.”

“Go on. I’ll watch him,” Moira said.

Nate and I followed Dr. Johnson down the hall to a family room, our hands still laced together. It was bland, the carpets a pale brown, the walls even paler brown. Ikea couches were pressed against the wall, a wilted spider plant on a table in one corner. A clock hung over the door, ticking ominously.

A slight man with creased, weathered skin and rosy cheeks was standing next to the plant. Someone I knew from a very long time ago. I inhaled sharply. His face was etched into my memories of the worst days of my life.

“This is our oncologist, Dr. Edward Palmer.” Dr. Johnson introduced us.

“Emma.” Dr. Palmer nodded, not seeming at all surprised to see me. “I heard you were working here. Good to see you again, although I’m sorry, of course, for the circumstances.”

It had been twenty years since I’d seen him. He was probably in his late fifties now, smaller and more stooped than I remembered. His hair was stark white, as were his eyebrows and beard. On second glance, the flushed cheeks were swollen blood vessels, the telltale sign of rosacea. But his eyes were the same warm amber, and his manner was grandfatherly.

“Nate, this is… Dr. Palmer.” My voice was flat and wooden.

“Dr. Palmer is one of the best oncologists in the state,” Dr. Johnson added. “He moved here to Cascade Regional from Harborview last summer. We’re lucky to have him on the team.”

Nate’s gaze landed on me, heating me like an accusation. “Oncologist?”

Tendrils of panic coiled around me. Both doctors were silent for a beat.

My husband’s fingers crushed the bones of my hand, and all I could do was cling to him. And then it was there, the diagnosis, coming at me slowly, and then all at once.

“The blood count came back,” Dr. Palmer said gravely. “I’m afraid Josh has leukemia.”

CHAPTER 6