“I really do appreciate whatever strings you pulled to get me in, but I heard what the previous docs said. Pumpkin, I just don’t want you and your mother’s hopes set too high on this.”

“Dad, you need to be optimistic.” Kathy said it a bit too loudly; she took a deep breath. “I’ve read studies that show patients tend to have better results if they’re optimistic about their treatment. Just please, for me, try to not be so much like a—”

“Like a jackass?” He squeezed her hand.

Leaning her head against his shoulder, Kathy smiled. “I was going to say, ‘Try not to be so much like an O’Reilly.’”

Dad chuckled. “Same thing.”

The glass doors slid open as they approached the building, and a nurse walked briskly toward them with a wheelchair. “Mr. O’Reilly, you’re right on time.”

Dad glared at the wheelchair. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ll be damned if I’m getting in that contraption. I’m not a cripple.”

“But sir—”

“Please,” said Kathy, as politely as she knew how. “Can you just humor my father? He really doesn’t like those things.”

The nurse paused, looking uncertain. But she then smiled and nodded. “Of course, Mr. O’Reilly.” She set aside the wheelchair and motioned for them to follow her. “I’ll take you to the waiting area we use for the trial patients.”

Walking slowly with her father, Kathy winced every time he did. She prayed that this place could provide the miracle he needed.

It took them a full five minutes to shuffle back to the lonely waiting room that seemed isolated from the main part of the facility.

They sat down in the waiting area, and a blonde woman in her forties walked in holding a manila folder full of papers. “Hi, I’m Pamela Ravitz, Dr. Müller’s nurse.” She turned to Dad and asked, “Are you Franklin Christopher O’Reilly?”

“Last I checked, that’s me,” Dad quipped.

The nurse turned to Kathy. “And I take it you’re his daughter?”

“Yes, I’m Kathy O’Reilly.”

“Great, I’ve got some material here that you’ll both need to look over.” The nurse opened the folder she was carrying and handed each of them a relatively thick pamphlet. “This is the description of the clinical trial. It goes over the expectations of the patient, a summary of the trial itself, as well as the ongoing care that will be necessary. It’s a phase-two clinical trial, and we have one hundred and forty patients currently undergoing treatment for several types of metastatic cancer, including the osteosarcoma you’ve been diagnosed with. Four are actually here at this facility; the others are around the US, in South America, and in London.”

“How is the treatment going?” Kathy asked as she looked up from the pamphlet.