“What?”

I hadn’t meant to blurt that out, either. Sometimes Jordan was my truth serum.

“It’s not definite,” I said, “but, yeah, I have a pretty strong hunch.”

“A ‘hunch,’” he said. “Not a doctor’s diagnosis. A ‘hunch.’”

“Right,” I said. “Jordan, you don’t know how hard it is to tell you about this. I haven’t even told my mom, and she’s a doctor.”

“For four-legged patients.”

“You can’t tell her, Jordan,” I said, suddenly getting insistent. “You can’t. You have to promise me right now.”

“I promise, I promise,” he said, putting his hands up in a surrender position. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” I said. “I have a suspicious lump—on my left boob, if you must know. And I have no idea how to get to an oncologist, given all that’s going on here.”

Jordan gave me the most serious look I’ve ever seen.

“Maggie, this is important. This is your life. We’ll get you diagnosed if I have to steal the next helicopter that lands within twenty miles of here.”

I smiled. “I appreciate that. I hope this won’t require your superhero intervention.”

He shook his head. “Cancer. Fuck. I don’t believe it. You’re too young.”

“I know,” I said. “I wish I didn’t have such a great track record for being right.”

He gave me a look like he was deciding whether to make a wisecrack.

“I was taking my X-ray in Mom’s office,” I continued, “and that reminds me.” I rolled up my sleeve and pointed to a white bump on my bicep. “Do you have this scar?”

He glanced at the corresponding spot on his arm. “Nope.”

I told him about the pill-like disc I saw on the X-ray, how I wondered whether it was like a microchip you implant in dogs in case they run away. “Is the military tracking us all now?” I asked. “Is it something less sinister? Or more?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve stopped discounting anything. Do other people have that scar? Does your mom?”

“Good question. We’ll have to check.”

He took my hand and started swinging it back and forth as we resumed walking.

“So … you’re a sixteen-year-old girl convinced that you have breast cancer—from a supposedly insignificant amount of radiation—while the government has implanted a microchip in your arm to track your every move. And you’re worried about your friend here because he might’ve lost touch with reality.”

I couldn’t suppress a smile. Neither could he.

“Bingo,” I said. “Next time, take out your damn cell phone and get a picture of your flaming, flesh-flying skeleton dude. You think you’re living in the 1970s or something?”

“You make an interesting point, Maggie Gooding,” he said, swinging my arm higher. “As you often do.”

CHAPTER 21

Jordan

AS MAGGIE AND I sat on her couch to watch the western Cat Ballou (her choice), I wrapped my arm around her, and she huddled close. It felt natural, like why hadn’t we been doing this always? I was putting up a good front, but her confession rattled me. If something bad happened to Maggie, I couldn’t bear it. I realized that more than ever. If she was right, we had no time to waste. You don’t rope-a-dope cancer.