I wasn’t sure why I felt so passionately about this stranger’s very personal choice. But she had ignited something inside me. “We need you, Greer. Women like me need women like you to look up to. We need you to show us how we can follow our dreams and still do good in the world. We need you to show us how to fight the good fight. So fight it, won’t you?”

She bit her lip, and I knew I was making her uncomfortable, but I couldn’t stop myself. My heart suddenly ripped in two for Parker, and I felt so protective of him, so cognizant of his pain, that I added, “What about poor Parker, Greer? Surely this is killing him. If you can’t fight for yourself, if you can’t fight for the women who need you, please, please, Greer, fight for Parker.”

She didn’t say anything for a second and then nodded her head toward my pad. “So, your story?”

I stood up. “If I run a story about your right to die, then you might feel like you can’t change your mind. So I’m going to give you a week to think about this.”

Greer followed me to the door. She looked me squarely in the eye and said, “Fine. But you should know: I never change my mind.”

I hoped and prayed that she would, almost as hard as I hoped and prayed Nanette wouldn’t fire me when I told her that I hadn’t gotten the story after all. This was a fireable offense. If Greer did change her mind, and I did the interview in a week, it would give me only one day to file it and meet my deadline, assuming I stayed up all night. I almost called her back to apologize. But then I realized that this was her life we were talking about here. If I were choosing her life over my story, I would do that any day, even if it meant losing my dream job and flying back to North Carolina a failure, my tail between my legs.

I usually kept these things confidential until they went to press, but I had to tell someone. Mom had scolded me, had made me imagine what it had been like for Greer to watch her own mother suffer with this same disease. I guessed I had overstepped, and I felt like a fool. I felt like a fool, that is, right up until four days later, when I got a call from Greer. She didn’t say hello or exchange pleasantries. She said, “Come back tomorrow. Let’s write a different story.”

“Greer,” I said, a smile in my voice, “writing a different story is what life is all about.”

Easy for me to say. Up until that point, my life had gone perfectly according to plan.

Parker handed me a cup of espresso and motioned toward the couch, bringing me back to the here and now, where I had just gotten fired from my job. He came back three minutes later wearing a T-shirt—so threadbare it was full of pinholes—and a pair of gym shorts.