“Just a few more tests,” Dr. Bennett said, and Lauren felt a flare of fear and anger. Diagnose me or tell me I’m healthy, for God’s sake, she thought, her face reddening. “This is a tricky case,” the doctor continued. “I want to be sure we get it right.”

Not super reassuring. “I’m really fine,” Lauren replied. I could like you. Give me a clean bill of health, and we’ll be great friends, I promise.

“Outpatient Testing will call to schedule you in the next day or so,” Dr. Bennett said. “If you feel worse, call me right away.”

“I’m fine. I feel great.”

“We’ll talk soon.”

Shit. No martinis with Dr. B., then.

And then there was Josh, hovering, glancing at her when she coughed. “Honey, I’m fine,” she snapped one night. “Can you please not bury me yet?” He didn’t answer. She huffed and went to bed, and he came in a half hour later and took her in his arms and said he loved her. It was impossible to stay mad.

Two more X-rays, two CAT scans, one high-resolution CAT scan, a pulmonary function test, a second pulmonary function test, one bronchoscopy (even with sedation, that was nasty). The questions were endless and irritatingly repetitive: Was she a smoker? History of asthma? Pneumonia? Tell us again how your father died. When did you go to Hawaii? Where did you stay? Swim? Eat? Were you exposed to asbestos, silicone dust, heavy metals, contaminated air-conditioning systems, moldy foliage, pigeon droppings?

“Of course I’ve been exposed to pigeon poop!” Lauren yelled the umpteenth time she was asked. “And moldy leaves! Hasn’t everyone? Just give me some damn cough medicine that actually works!”

So when Dr. Bennett called her and asked her to come in “with your husband,” Lauren was almost relieved. Finally, they’d figured it out. Some weird pneumonia she’d caught on the plane to Hawaii, probably.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Bennett said when they arrived at her office. “And please, call me Kwana.”

A good sign or a bad sign, to be on a first-name basis with your doctor? Lauren felt cold, suddenly.

“Hi, Kwana!” she said, as if being cheery would make everything okay. “I love your hair.” Over the holidays, Dr. Bennett had gone from shiny, straight hair to multiple braids twisted into a bun. And hey. If she wanted to be called Kwana, that was fine. They’d get out of this appointment, Kwana would apologize for being so aggressive, when gosh, it was just this one thing, here was the cure, and absolutely, she’d love to come out for drinks one night!

Except Lauren’s heart was beating too hard. She took a slow, deliberate breath. All good. No cough, not right now, see?

“Does it take forever, those braids?” she asked. Talking about hair was much, much better than anything Lauren could think of at this moment.