“I’m talking about early indications of ALS. I’m sure you are all too aware of the very slight risk of genetic transfer.” I pause to let the implication settle, but not long enough for him to process the questions flooding his mind. Muscle spasms would be meaningless even if I’d noticed them, which I didn’t, and deep down he knows that, but I don’t let him dig deep, because I’m already on to facts and statistics gleaned from my very recent research, adding, “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

He shakes his head. “What indications? I don’t even—”

“You need to find specialized care. Have these conversations with doctors who see it every day.”

“This is—” He shakes his head again. “This can’t be happening.”

“I know this is shocking. There must be a reason it’s happening now. Things like this force people to use their precious time wisely. I want you to go out and spend the summer doing things you’ve always wanted to do. When autumn comes, you’ll make a plan.”

Nick’s eyes dampen. His act of feeling is too intimate, maybe even manipulative, and I steel myself as warmth flows up my spine, my neck, my brow, branches out inside my forehead—certain that sympathy would distract me, guilt would overshadow my goal—but this warmth on the rise isn’t compassion. It’s victory.

I hand Nick the articles I printed, saying, “Here. These might help.”

He folds the papers in half, then fourths. Without glancing at the headlines—without making time for hope—he places them on the small table by the door. “Well,” he finally says. “I guess that’s that.”

“Actually,” I say, “there is something else.” Despite rehearsing this part in my head, it doesn’t come naturally, as I’d imagined. “It’s tough, but it has to be said.”

“Jesus,” Nick whispers.

“The thing is—this conversation needs to stay between us.”

“What do you mean?”

“It needs to stay between us,” I repeat.

“You want me to keep this a secret?”

I nod toward the house and say, “For their sakes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. I’m dead serious. If you share this with them before having a treatment plan, they will make things very complicated and dramatic.”

“Jonah wouldn’t do that,” he says.

I should have rehearsed this out loud, but I’ve already committed, so I say, “Jonah would be devastated. He would add to your stress. He’d shoot the messenger, too.”

“For doing your job?”

“Well, you’re not my patient, really. I’m telling you all of this as a courtesy, as a family friend. I’m doing you a solid, but my diagnosis is off-the-record. Worrying everyone and pitting them against me won’t change a thing for you. Bring it up when you have more information.”