I manage to steer the conversation back to her disease and her treatment, conscious of the fact that she may not be wrong. And that my work is a little like trying to drain the ocean with a bucket.

All the while, I sense the ticking of the clock. Shair is my next patient.

Lacey hands me his chart when I come out of the room.

“In a gown, as you requested. Doubt you’ll be in there long. He’s not much of a talker,” she says.

I stand outside the door for a beat. When I step into the room, Shair draws his shoulders back. He is perched on the exam table, his legs dangling over the side. His calves are thin, tendinous. The years have not been good to him. I picture him standing in the elevator of his building, breathing in the mixture of sweat and spices and car exhaust.

“Welcome back, Mr. Nabi,” I say. As I shut the door behind me, I see that he is not alone. The woman I saw in the lobby of his building sits in the visitor’s chair, legs crossed. She has placed her handbag and her father’s neatly folded clothes on the chair beside her.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Shephard,” I say. I do not reach out to shake her hand as I normally would. “How are you related to Mr. Nabi?”

“I’m his daughter,” she says, looking over at her father. She does not recognize me from the lobby.

Shair mumbles something in greeting, but I cannot hear him over the roar of my own thoughts. I tuck the rolling stool under the sink. I will not sit today. I will not be diminished in any way.

“Your father mentioned you in his last visit,” I say. I set his chart down on the counter. “It’s good of you to be here with him today.”

She nods.

“I would have come last time if I’d known. He doesn’t tell us . . . didn’t tell us about the appointment.”

“This is not your fault,” I tell her. “We’ve got a lot to talk about—good and bad. I’ve reviewed the imaging of his abdomen.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks at his daughter from the corner of his eye. She fidgets in her seat, tries to find the right posture to receive what I am about to say.

“But he said his pain is in his back. Is this for the heartburn?”

I lean against the edge of the counter. I feel pity for his daughter, despite everything.

“Has he not discussed his diagnosis with you?”

She looks again at her father, but he raises an eyebrow in my direction. He wants me to tell her. I give her a moment to brace herself. Everyone deserves that much.

“He has stomach cancer,” I explain, and she pales at my words. “It has spread beyond his stomach.”