“I know it’s really hard to hear. That’s why we try not to give timeframes unless someone’s determined to know. This isn’t a precise science—we can’t know exactly how your cancer’s going to behave. It could be that you have longer. As I say, I can only give you averages.”

Audrey nodded, wanting to remove any doubt on the doctor’s part that perhaps she’d made a mistake in telling the truth. But now that she had the facts, Audrey didn’t know what to do with them. They felt hot in her mouth, loud in her ears, tight in her chest.

She blinked and swallowed, trying to reteach herself the simple task of breathing in and then out again. Such minor victories over her body: controlling her breathing, holding back her tears. Such small battles won when they all knew she’d already lost the war.

She felt a hand on her arm, looked up to see the home-care nurse crouched next to her, saw such compassion in her eyes that she wondered how anyone had the strength to do that job: offering comfort where there was none to be had.

“Can we call someone for you? We’d really rather you didn’t go home on your own. Was no one free to come with you today?”

Audrey shook her head, thinking of the people who’d asked to accompany her: Lily, Jess, Mia, Phoebe. But she’d insisted on coming alone, and now she was relieved that she had. Having to cope with someone else’s shock was more than she could have borne.

“Well, there’s no rush to leave. We can sit outside in the waiting room for as long as you like. I might even be able to rustle up a cup of tea.”

The home-care nurse smiled and Audrey felt herself try to reciprocate but it was as if the muscles around her mouth had slackened and couldn’t quite pull themselves up. “That’s very kind but there’s no need. I’ll call a taxi.”

“I can do that for you.”

There was a moment’s silence, as though all three of them were paying respects to an event they knew was coming far too soon. Then Dr. Sharma glanced at her computer screen, and leaned back in her chair. “Audrey, we don’t have to make any decisions about your treatment today. Go home, discuss things with your family, think it all through. Let’s make an appointment for next week. That gives you the weekend to mull it over. How does that sound?”

Audrey nodded, thinking back to the discussions she’d had seven months ago, when she’d first announced her decision to refuse treatment: Lily’s pleading, Jess’s frustration, Dr. Sharma’s patient explanation of the options, as though perhaps a repetition of the facts might somehow change her mind. But Audrey had been resolute. She knew the doctors were offering her nothing more than palliative care. There had been no conversations then about possible remission, no hope of a reprieve. Just chemotherapy to try to slow the growth of something nobody denied would kill her. Audrey had imagined a day room filled with a dozen patients sitting in high-backed cushioned chairs, silent and immobile as drugs were pumped intravenously through cannulas in the back of their hands, medication seeping into their bloodstream and charging toward an enemy it was destined not to defeat. Seconds, minutes, hours ticking away, accompanied by nothing more than the hope of a brief stay of execution, with no guarantee that those faulty days would ever be refunded.