THOSE WORDS—JOSH HAS LEUKEMIA—hovered in the air like wisps of smoke. Nate couldn’t seem to grasp them. The diagnosis seemed as unlikely as Chewbacca walking through the doors right then.

Josh had a cold. The bruises were from being slide-tackled.

Leukemia.

It must be a mistake.

“Here. Sit.” Dr. Palmer motioned them to a pair of cheap Ikea couches and sat across from them. Emma put one hand on Nate’s knee, the warmth of her skin grounding him. He placed his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight, as if they could ward off the doctor’s words if they stayed together.

Nate studied Dr. Palmer, who reminded him of Santa Claus. In Nate’s experience, most surgeons and specialists were hugely talented, with egos to match. But Palmer didn’t swagger or bark orders. He smiled softly instead of grinning. He hunched his shoulders, but when he looked at Nate his eyes were calm, assured. Intelligent. The type of man you could underestimate.

Emma had gone ashen, but she didn’t look surprised by the diagnosis. “How do we treat it?” she asked.

Like most habitual worriers, Emma was great in a crisis. It was one of the things that made her such an excellent doctor. But Nate knew this was simply because when the worst happened, she had sort of been expecting it all along.

“Josh needs treatment immediately.” Dr. Palmer was speaking. He adjusted the silver tie at his throat, smoothed it flat against his chest. His gaze was apologetic. It made Nate anxious. “We’ll do further tests and set a treatment plan.”

He started talking about bone marrow and spinal fluid, but all Nate could think was that his son had leukemia, and didn’t people die of that? How could he stop it? He felt impotent against the onslaught of medical words. It was his job to provide for his family, to keep them safe, and somehow this thing, this enemy, had sneaked into his son.

Nate watched Emma speaking with the other doctors. Her hair had come unclasped, glossy, dark tendrils hanging around her ears. Mascara was smudged under her eyes. And yet she still seemed so calm, asking all the right questions. She was detaching herself. But he could tell by the white of her lips, the pinch between her brows, and the hard clench of her jaw that she was terrified.

Dr. Palmer grasped Emma’s shoulder, an overly familiar gesture. She leaned toward him. Just a hair, but enough that Nate noticed. This was someone so familiar that Emma could lean on him now, in the midst of their son’s leukemia diagnosis. And yet she’d never mentioned his name.

Emma caught Nate’s baffled expression and stiffened. She shook her head. Not now.

“How did I miss it?” In the harsh lights Emma’s porcelain skin was so pale it almost looked translucent.