I shrug. “Hell if I know. My first time dying of cancer,” I quip, but it’s bitter and falls flat, and she flinches. “Sorry. I’m not flippant about this, I swear. But sometimes humor is the only way I can face it.”

She takes my hand. “Since you kept it from me for so long, I think it’s only fair we do this my way.”

“‘Oh good, my way… What’s my way?’” I quote.

“‘The moment his head is in view, smash it with the rock!’” She continues the Princess Bride quote, mostly correctly.

“‘My way’s not very sportsmanlike,’” I finish.

She laughs, but again it’s more of a wet sniffle than a laugh. “We should watch that.”

“Nadia.”

She shakes her head. “My way is I quit my job, or take an indefinite leave. You let me take care of you. We spend this time together. Like in Paris, but at home, and—and all the way to…to the—the end.”

“All right.” What else is there to say?

She’s blinking hard, head tipped back. “You’re sure there’s nothing…they can—they can do?”

“I’m sure.” I wave a hand. “I could do more chemo, but at this point even the most aggressive chemo is just going to make my last few weeks or months a misery. Chemo fucking sucks…it sucks, it really, really, really sucks.”

She nods. “I’ve done shifts in the oncology ward.”

“I guess, if it can’t be cured, and there’s nothing else that can really extend my life in any meaningful way, then…I’d just rather go as peacefully as I can.”

She’s chewing on something. “What…god, I don’t even know how to ask it. What will it be like? Do you know?”

I shake my head. “No, not really. I’ve wondered more than a few times myself, especially recently, but it feels sort of—I don’t know, defeatist? Morbid?—to Google or ask the doctor what dying of pancreatic cancer will be like. Not fun, I can tell you that. But I’ve got…” I tug open my bedside drawer and pull out my little leather satchel of pills. “This. A veritable pharmacy of shit that’s supposed to take the edge off. So I guess I’ll just get all strung out and…we’ll be together through it.”

She’s sorting through the bottles, reading the labels with a certain professional curiosity. She lifts one. “Adrian. Really?”

I know what’s she’s got: the little blue pills. “I get by with a little help from my friends,” I say, trying to smile. “I just needed…I needed you to—to know that I still…that I’m not—”

“Oh, Adrian…” she chokes out.