The door opened.
The clinic physician stepped inside holding another folder.
He looked at my mother.
“Dr. Mercer.”
She stood.
“Doctor.”
He nodded and glanced at Vega.
“Staff Sergeant.”
Then he looked at me.
“Rowan, we need to talk.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not necessarily.”
I hated those words.
Not necessarily.
They were the words doctors used when they didn’t want to frighten you before they had enough information.
He pulled a chair closer.
“The pain you’ve reported could have several explanations. Scar tissue. Nerve irritation. Musculoskeletal strain. Post-surgical inflammation.”
“And cancer?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“That is what the imaging is intended to clarify.”
My mother reached for my hand.
I let her.
For the first time in fourteen months, I allowed myself to be frightened in front of someone.
“I thought I beat it.”
“You may have,” the doctor said.
“Then why does everyone keep talking like I haven’t?”
“Because surviving cancer does not mean you stop being monitored.”
He opened the folder.
“The report from your oncology team recommends imaging because of the new pain. That’s standard follow-up when symptoms change.”
I looked at the paper again.
Tomorrow.
The word seemed enormous.
Vega stepped forward.
