I don’t completely blame him. Today is a good day. The best we’ve had in a while. The doctor said my new liver seems to be adapting to me quite nicely. Like I’m some kind of adopted dog.

Except, with a dog, if something bad happens, you can return it. If we returned my liver, I’d for sure die. So it’s definitely different.

I understand why he’s happy. Mom, too, even though she couldn’t make it to the appointment. Hell hath no fury like a woman this close to getting tenure.

His joy being justified is the only reason I’m not groaning or throwing him some snide remark. Instead I’m just looking out the window, watching Boston pass us by.

“And just think, the next time you’re here, it’ll be for medical school—and then your residency and then your fellowship and—”

“Dad.”

He raises one hand, his version of raising the white flag. “Sorry. You know how…”

“Excited you get about medicine? I know.”

Not just any medicine, though—specifically, my future in medicine. A word of advice for my future self when I’m reincarnated: don’t tell your parents when you’re six that you want to be a doctor, because they will absolutely never let it go.

And, technically, I’m not done with the hospital yet. I’ll have checkups from here to eternity. But for all intents and purposes, my life is mine again. I can just be that student with the killer college essay about how I overcame cancer and it made me stronger and that’s why I would make an excellent addition to the University of Pennsylvania community! Go Quakers!

Take that, hepatocellular carcinoma.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Dad says. “You okay? Feeling queasy? Tired? Something else? How’s the pain?”

“I’m fine. No. Yes. No. Pain is normal, I promise.”

It’s not, but pain isn’t the right word to describe what I’m feeling. It feels like the back of a metal chair has been pressing against my stomach for too long.

“Good,” Dad says, making a turn. “You’ll tell me if—”

“Yes, I will.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I twist my body and reach for it, but the movement pulls at something, and I hiss. Dad snaps his head toward me and slowly starts to move over to the shoulder, but I wave my hand, dismissing his concern. I finally grab my phone and check the screen. It’s a text from my best friend Isobel.

Are you a mutant yet?

That’s…not how it works.

You didn’t answer the question.

Stacey thinks you’d be a good pyrokinetic.

I knew I liked her. Keep her around. So much better for you than Kiki.

Rude. I loved Kiki.

You LIKED Kiki. You LOVE Stacey.

“Tell Isobel I say hi,” Dad says.