Page 156 - In Five Years

I take out my phone. Before I am down the hall, before I have any clear grasp
on what I’m doing, I’m scrolling to his name and hitting the green button. He
answers after the third ring.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

I start to speak and then, instead of words, I’m met with big, hiccupping sobs.
I crouch down in the corner of the hallway, let them rake over me. Nurses pass

by, unmoved. This is the chemo floor, after all. Nothing new to see here. Just the
end of the world over and over and over again.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, and hangs up.