My mind wanders, this time to you, to the happiness on your face when you see me waiting outside of the school, or how heavy your eyes are when you’re trying not to fall asleep. I think of all the made-up tales you have told me, all the imaginary friends, all the whispering voices. I realize in that moment that I can never tell you this news, because it’s a monster far too scary, a story far too dark for an eleven-almost-twelve-year-old. There is relief with the realization that I do not have to tell you. That I will not tell you. So I look over at Dr. Cortez, finally ready to listen.

“Mr. Elias,” she says, “do you understand what I’m telling you?”

I wonder how doctors can possibly appear to be so young. Like high school students. Dr. Cortez’s hair is held together in a bright pink scrunchie, and she has no wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. We have become friends through the last months, closer as the news has become increasingly worse. She has always tried to soften the blows.

The thought hums through my mind that this is a practical joke, one of those television shows where they play pranks on unsuspecting chumps. I smile to myself, eager for this to be true. I actually check the room for a hidden camera. Perhaps in the light switch, or in that pointy wall mount behind the glass jar of cotton swabs? Or in the tiny pendant that sways, barely visible inside the neck of her blue blouse where the top button sags, undone?

But there is the knot on my head behind my left temple. That is no practical joke. And there are waves of nausea, moments when I nearly black out. Those are not practical jokes. And Dr. Cortez wouldn’t lie to me. Maybe it’s God. Maybe God is the prankster here.

My face must be suitably blank, because she tells me once again, for the third time.

“Mr. Elias? There is no treatment available,” she says. “It’s too far along. I’m very sorry.” The buds of tears form in the corners of her eyes, those eyes that have no wrinkles, and the left side of her mouth twitches in a sad dance. She stands and turns away and pretends to rearrange the various pamphlets on the counter. I shift ever so slightly on the examination table, and the paper underneath me crackles like electricity.

She turns, holding out one of the pamphlets, and I take it from her smooth hands. She is a child. The words on the pamphlet read, “Hospice Care and You.”

I take another deep breath. I am full to bursting with air. I let it out in a long sigh.

“Are you still blacking out?” Her voice is probing, gentle.

I shrug, nod.

“Are your pain levels okay?”

I nod again.

When I think I’ll never find words again, five of them disturb the surface. “How long do I have?”