Xander crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, I choose that he lives. And if you think that’s selfish, then I don’t care. I don’t want to lose my dad. I’m not going to be the son who lets it happen.”

“What if it were you?” I asked quietly. His eyes narrowed, and I continued. “What if you were the one who couldn’t make your own choice?”

“I don’t have to think about that. I’m thirty-one years old.” He shrugged.

“But if you did,” I pushed. “What would you want?”

“Are you asking if I’d want a DNR?”

“I’m asking you to think about it,” I said slowly, clutching the envelope, “because one day you might not have the choice. The ironic thing about you fighting Dad for his right to his own body is that you never stopped to ask yourself about the genetics.”

Xander froze.

“I did.” I shrugged. “When I realized that Willow was it for me, that I wanted marriage and kids and the whole domestic package, I started reading. Guess what, Xander? Dad’s form of Alzheimer’s is genetic. It’s a presenilin-one mutation.”

The color drained from his face. “So that means we could have it.”

“Sullivan did,” I announced, handing him the envelope. He refused to take it. “I got the results for all three of us the day of the hearing.”

“How?” He looked at the envelope like it would grow teeth and bite him, which was the most logical reaction I’d seen him have in a while.

“Mom kept all our baby teeth in those little memory boxes in her closet. Gross but useful.”

“You did this without my permission.” He glared at me, but there was fear in his eyes, stark and sharp.

“I did. But the lab doesn’t know that. The results are in there. Patients S, C, and A. Totally anonymous.” I waved the results again. “Don’t you want to know?”

“I don’t know.” He stared at the envelope.

“I could tell you. I read it.”

His eyes jerked back to mine, wide and furious. “Don’t.”

“Why? Don’t like to have your choices taken?” I asked. “I can make you feel better. I don’t have it.”

His lips pursed. “How does that make me feel better?”

“Other than knowing your little brother won’t be taken by early-onset Alzheimer’s?” I chided. “It should comfort you because no matter what that envelope says, I won’t be you. I’ll listen to you. I’ll give you the choices you won’t give Dad, because I don’t give a shit what people say or how I look to the world. I know who I am. I’ve made peace with my choices.”

I thrust the envelope at his chest, and he slowly took it.