“It was good,” she says lightly. She lets go of Jonah and gives me a hug. “No changes.”

But my heart drops. That means the cancer is still there. I hate that the new standard is that such a thing can be considered “good.” I hate the freedom cancer seems to have to do what it wants. I hate that we can’t fully outsmart it. I hate everything about it. But I have to be positive for my mom. Being positive, being good — that’s my role. “That’s great, Mom! I’m so glad.”

“Yes, me too.”

I gesture at the stove. “Water’s on for pasta.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re such a good girl.” She lays a hand on my cheek, and I jump because it’s so cold. She laughs. “Sorry — it’s freezing out.”

“It’s okay. Do you need more help with dinner?” I still have Sam on my mind. I want to respond to what she said, maybe ask her about her dad, but since she only texted me by accident, I’m not sure where the line is between prying and responding to something personal that she chose to share.

My mom says, “No, you go ahead. Thanks for getting it started.”

I head up to my room, where I review the messages I’ve exchanged with Sam. After some thought, I write: That sounds pretty rough.

While I wait for her response, I send a quick message to Elliot Levine, the writer and director of the play: Found the perfect painting for the dream sequence set. Can’t wait for you to see it!

He writes back: Ah, you’re the best! I wish you could have auditioned — everyone misses you. But I’m so glad you’re still involved.

I smile sadly. I’m glad to be missed, but god, I wish I were in this show. Even Syd, a sometimes-theater person when it’s not volleyball season, has a small part. I would have killed to play Fiona, the main character’s loving, long-suffering wife who is always trying — often in vain — to help, to fix things, to make people happy. It’s a perfect role for me. Instead, Serena Alvarez has the part. I force myself to wish her well, to hope she’ll be great. But it would be a lie to say I hope she’ll be better than I would have been.

I go back to watching my phone for Sam’s reply. Minutes more pass before it comes. It says only: Sorry for the misfire.

Her unexpectedly terse response stings. I intruded, and now I feel stupid. And weirdly hurt that she didn’t want to talk, that she rejected me.