She takes the news stoically, nodding. It’s fall and she could make it to spring, and they might be able to shrink the spinal tumor with radiation, enough to delay paralysis, keep her mobile for a while. They show her the films, and she stares transfixed at the perfect curve of her own spine caught and held by the shadowy fingers of the monster. Here, here, and a tiny bit here. The doctor sets his pencil down on the desk and she stares at it, composing herself, willing away the claustrophobic images of last summer, the botched surgery, her leg dragging behind her in the swirling Brooklyn heat, numb foot scraping along the sidewalk. A zombie, a reanimated corpse. All that for this.

It might not happen, the doctor tells her. Other things might happen first.

She takes that to mean death. In the context of paralysis, it seems comforting.

We can keep you comfortable, he says reassuringly. If it comes to that.

But I can’t tolerate pain medication, she says. They never found anything that didn’t make me vomit.

He writes something on her chart and closes it, holds out his hand.

And this, of course, is when the world turns glamorous. Her daughters look like movie stars in their low-slung pants and pale autumn complexions. The trees on her street vibrate in the afternoon sunlight, the dying leaves so brilliant that she somehow feels she’s never seen any of this before—fall, and the way the landscape can levitate with color, and even her simple cup of green tea in the afternoons, with milk and honey in a thick white mug. Warm. Her hand curled around it, or the newspaper folded beside it, or a halved orange on a blue plate sitting next to it. It’s all lovely beyond words, really.

Even the pain has a sharp, glittering realness to it, like a diamond lodged in her hip. She ignores it, gardening, pruning the dead foliage, sorting out the pumpkin vines, and still she walks each day, abandoning the stone cemetery for the dazzling woods at Hickory Hill. Troops of shiny-headed Cub Scouts move through the park, picking up gum wrappers and cigarette butts, stopping to pet Ursa, jostling each other, asking if she bites. They never heard of the name Ursa, but there’s so much they haven’t heard of that they take it in stride.

“Our dog got put to sleep from a brain tumor,” a little boy tells Cheri. “His name was Pete and it might have been from eating grass with pesticide on it.” He examines Ursa’s head, lifting her ears and looking inside, then stands up. “This one seems okay,” he says with an air of mild disappointment. He’s smaller than the rest, compact and green-eyed, with a tumultuous stand of dark hair. An early version of all the men she’s ever loved.