Mr. Reardon crosses the room, sits on the arm of his wife’s chair, takes her hand. “Maybe we’re not quite ready to do this now,” he tells me.

Mrs. Reardon stands, looks at me. “You don’t even know him.” She leaves the room.

I clear my throat, reach for my nurse’s bag.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Reardon says. “We’ve been … We haven’t even had any sleep, lately.”

“I understand.”

“Really, we just would appreciate knowing how he’s doing from your point of view. On some sort of regular basis.”

“I’d be happy to tell you that. And … Well, you know there will come a time when he can’t come to my house any more. When he’ll only be here.”

“Right. That will not be a good time.”

“No.”

“I talked to his doctor the other day. If he gets no further treatment, that time will come pretty soon.”

“It’s hard to say when.”

“Around six weeks, tops, is what he predicted, before—”

“It’s a guess.”

“Rather an educated one, though, wouldn’t you say? I hired a pretty damn good oncologist.”

“I know you did. But it’s still a guess.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chip coming into the room. His father stands, and the expression on his face changes to one of forced cheer. “Well! Out for the evening!”

Chip is wearing a blue blazer over his jeans, and a blue-and-white striped shirt. His blue kerchief over his head.

“Thought we’d go out to dinner,” Chip says. And then, “Hi, Myra.”

“Actually, Diann’s cooking,” I tell him.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“She never cooks.”

“She is now.”

“What time will you be home?” Mr. Reardon asks.

Chip turns toward him. “What time will I be home?” He starts to laugh. “Dad. Jesus. What could happen?”

• • •

In the car, we ride in silence until we hit the freeway. The more speed I pick up, the more Chip seems to relax. He turns on the radio, then says loudly over the music, “You can see why I need to get out of there.”

“Oh, they’re just … They want to save you, Chip.”

“I know that.” He stares out the window. Then, more quietly, “I know.” He turns toward me. “How about you?”

“Do I want to save you?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could.”

“I wish you could, too.”

A car honks loudly, narrowly misses us. My fault; I strayed out of my lane. “Or you could kill us both,” Chip says. “We could go together.”

“‘NURSE AND PATIENT GREASED ON LINDBERG STREET,’” I say.

“‘PATIENT’S PARENTS ENRAGED,’” Chip says. “‘NOT WHAT I HAD PLANNED,’ SAYS MOTHER.’”

I look at him, smile. He shrugs. “I don’t worry so much about her.”

“I know. It’s your dad who’s the vulnerable one.”

“You understand everything, Myra.”

“Well.”

“No. You do.”