"Angel, I'm right here," he says, voice rough. "I'm not leaving. I'm right here."
I hurry beside him, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
We follow them through the sliding doors, hearts in our throats, dread pulling tighter with every step — and absolutely no idea what we're about to walk into.
It's been hours.
Long, heavy, nauseating hours since we rushed Sam into the ER.
The hallway outside her room feels cold, too bright, too quiet except for the occasional beep of machines and the soft shuffle of night-shift nurses. I've been pacing between a chair and the wall, crying without even realizing I'm crying, my hands still shaking every few minutes like my body can't figure out how to feel safe.
Zach and Charlene are inside Sam's room with the doctor.
I stayed outside to give them space... but the door is open just enough that I can hear everything.
Dr. Wilcott — Sam's hematologist/oncologist from the South Florida Comprehensive Cancer Institute — arrived about an hour ago. She'd been in surgery, which was why she couldn't come sooner. The ER team saw Sam's labs, learned her medical history from Zach, and called her immediately.
She drove straight here herself, still in her scrub jacket.
"Sam's cancer is back..." Dr. Wilcott says gently.
My whole body tightens.
Tears instantly pool in my eyes.
Inside the room, I hear Charlene's sharp inhale — a sound made of pure, maternal terror.
There's a beat of silence — thick, dreadful, suffocating.
"When Sam came in last month because she was feeling fatigued and showing bruising along her lower back and underarms," Dr. Wilcott begins, her voice calm but heavy with meaning, "we ran a full panel — CBC, smear, marrow markers. Her counts weren't stable. There were abnormalities in her blasts, her platelets, and her neutrophils... enough that we were concerned her remission might not be holding."
She pauses, exhaling softly — not dramatically, just the way doctors do when they wish they could give better news.
"We ordered a follow-up marrow study, repeated her labs, and... the trends confirmed what we were afraid of. All of the indicators were consistent with a relapse of her AML."
Another pause.
"That's why she had the abdominal pain today, as well as the other acute symptoms she's experiencing. Her system is under significant stress, and we need to start treatment as soon as possible."
Charlene breaks.
A scream — raw, gutted— rips from her chest and echoes down the hallway.
It makes my hand fly to my mouth as tears spill hot and fast, blurring everything.
"No—no, no, please—" Charlene sobs. "We did this already. We—we did everything. This can't happen again. God, please..."
I hear Zach inhale sharply — not a gasp, not even a cry, but a sound like someone just crushed all the air out of him.
He doesn't speak.
I don't think he can.
Dr. Wilcott continues softly, "I know how much she's fought. And I know how unfair this feels after everything she endured before."
Charlene cries harder, muffled in her hands.
Dr. Wilcott pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice dips with empathy, "But she responded well to treatment last time. That history still matters. First thing in the morning, we'll repeat her marrow sample, update her cytogenetics, and start planning her next course of treatment. We're moving quickly because we need to — but she is not going through this alone."
