2. He very much likes to be petted on his arm or his back. He likes to be soothed this way, and he will make humming or cooing noises sometimes. That means he’s happy.

3. He loves being sung to.

I pause, considering naming some of his favorite songs, but then I worry: Will it confuse him, someone else singing him the songs I sing to him? Will it remind him of me and make him sad? Unable to bear the thought, I leave number three as is.

4. He sometimes gets upset if he wants food and can’t have it. Things that help are distracting him with songs or videos, or . . .

I sigh. Sometimes the only fix is letting him have what he wants. I don’t imagine that’s going to go over well in a professional setting, whatever that is. I decide to come back to number four. I type a 5 and stare at the screen, wishing for some way to tell them everything I want them to know about Jonah. I type:

5. He is really a sweet kid. You might have to be patient with him sometimes, but if you give him a chance

I break off because I’m crying again. After a while, I type:

6. I love him with my whole heart.

I close my computer, feeling beaten. I can’t make strangers be loving and kind to Jonah with a stupid list.

I lie back down on the bed. Mom is getting Jonah dressed next door. He is still making noise but softer now. I hear my dad go in and try to get them to hurry up. He’s worried about how much daylight will be left by the time we get to Bonney Butte. Moments later, my mom comes and knocks on my door.

“Ready to go?” she asks, poking her head in. I sit up as she enters, and her face falls when she sees mine. She sits next to me and puts her arms around me. “Oh, Zoe,” she whispers. “What are we going to do?”

I lean on her quietly as she rocks us back and forth, my eyes falling on the pink lump of her chemo port scar, visible in the open neck of her collar. I hate seeing it, hate thinking about that port, that frail and hopeful tether to life — an endless, taunting reminder of how capricious and arbitrary it all is. Every day I worry that the cancer is growing, and I don’t understand how the doctors think it is okay to go so many weeks without checking. Cancer calls the shots, not us — that much is clear.

“I wish it weren’t so soon,” she murmurs. “I’m not ready.”

“We’ll never be ready,” I point out.

“But he’s only fifteen,” she says, her voice breaking, along with my heart.