*****
ZACH
A week.
That's how long it's been since we brought my sister into the hospital—Sam clutching her stomach, pale and shaking, trying to breathe through a pain so sharp it stole her words.
At first, I kept telling myself it was nothing serious. Maybe she ate something bad. Maybe it was just cramps. Anything... anything but what it really was.
But then the doctors started throwing around words no brother ever wants to hear again.
Typhlitis. Neutropenic Enterocolitis.
A dangerous intestinal infection that hits when your immune system is bottomed out—when your body has no soldiers left to fight.
And that only happens to people battling cancer.
Yeah. That's right. Cancer.
And not just any cancer — it's Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The same monster that clawed at her when she was eight years old, then again in high school. And now, here it is—back for a third fucking round like it forgot it already ruined her childhood twice.
I sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair right beside her bed, elbows on my knees, palms pressed to my face like I'm trying to hold myself together. It's just me and her right now.
Mom had to drive back to Naples earlier to grab more of Sam's things and sort out an extension for her leave at work—she didn't want to go, but there was no way around it.
And Caroline just left a few minutes ago too, promising she'd grab clean clothes for both of us and come straight back.
Sam's sleeping now—finally. Her breathing's steadier, the fever broke yesterday, the swelling in her abdomen has gone down. She's even managed to eat half a cup of soup today.
The doctors and nurses have been in and out nonstop all week—IV antibiotics dripping constantly, pain meds around the clock, labs every few hours. CBC trends, metabolic panels, inflammatory markers... half of the time I don't even know what test they're running anymore.
I just watch her flinch every time someone touches her IV line, and I want to scream.
Typhlitis comes with every horrible thing you can imagine—fever, severe abdominal pain, nausea, diarrhea, her body curled over itself like she's trying to escape from her own insides. And she faced all of it quietly, apologizing to me for "being a burden," even while she was shaking in pain.
I still can't believe this is happening.
Again.
For the third goddamn time.
Like what is this—some cosmic joke?
Third time's the charm?
She hasn't suffered enough, so the universe wants another shot?
I drag a hand down my face, staring at her. Her skin looks a little less gray today. Her lips less cracked. She's not trembling anymore. She looks... stable. Fragile, but stable.
And the whole time, this thought keeps cutting through me:
How didn't I see it sooner?
She told me that her checkup last month went fine. "Still cancer-free," she said with that bright smile she's always had.
And I believed her. God, I just believed her.
I didn't question the way she got tired so easily. I didn't question how she skipped meals some days. How she brushedoff pain. How she said she was "just busy" when she avoided coming to see me.
