Audrey felt the room shrink as though each of the four walls was slowly advancing toward her. “How does this change the prognosis? How long have I got?”

Dr. Sharma shifted in her seat and swept some invisible dust from the surface of her desk before raising her head and looking directly at Audrey. “As I’ve said before, it can be really unhelpful to talk in terms of timelines. There’s no reliable means of predicting how cancers are going to behave. Every case is unique. What I will say is that now might be a good time to reconsider whether you’d like to undergo any treatment. I know you were against it before, but this latest diagnosis does change the outlook. I have to be honest with you: given the way your cancer has spread in the last few weeks, treatment options are limited. But chemotherapy may help slow the growth of the tumors and minimize the risk of the cancer spreading. You don’t have to decide anything now. I’m going to give you all the leaflets again, just so that you have the information to hand. Maybe you’d like to discuss it with your family over the weekend.”

Audrey reached out and took the same collection of leaflets she’d first been given nearly seven months before, filled with advice and information she could have recited verbatim if tested. “But assuming I still don’t want treatment, how long do you think I’ve got?”

An almost imperceptible flicker of something skittered behind the doctor’s eyes: impatience or pity, uncertainty or apology, Audrey wasn’t sure which.

“Honestly, Audrey, I really don’t think it’s helpful to talk in those terms.”

“It will help me. Please. There are things I want to do. Things I need to do . . .” Her voice trailed off, the words trapped in her throat. She breathed slowly, tried to compose her face into that of someone who was prepared for the answer, however difficult.

The doctor eyed her silently, glanced over at the home-care nurse, and leaned forward in her chair. “As I say, Audrey, there’s no accurate means of prediction. And every case really is unique. But on average, patients with cancer like yours—cancer that’s spread in a similar way, with a similar alacrity—might be looking at a life expectancy of somewhere around four to six months.”

Audrey felt all the air escape from her lungs. Her limbs loosened, as if she were about to topple forward out of the chair. She tried to focus on a fixed point—the cardboard calendar on the windowsill—like a seasick sailor gluing their eyes to the safe line of the horizon.

Four to six months.

She’d arrived at the appointment believing she had at least a year left to live. Now she had just half of that, possibly a third. She sat completely still and thought about all the events she might not live to witness.

Her sixty-third birthday. Mia and Phoebe’s eighteenths. The girls’ A-level results.

Christmas, New Year, Easter: all those milestones she’d experienced for the last time without knowing it.