Chapter 5
The morning air cut through my lungs like broken glass, but I forced myself outside anyway. Rocky bounded ahead into the pristine snow, his golden fur bright against the white expanse. He didn't know this was our last lesson.
I pulled the frisbee from my jacket pocket.
"Come here, boy," I called softly.
Rocky trotted back, tail wagging, eyes bright with anticipation. He'd been my constant companion for three years, the only family member who never asked me to be less so someone else could be more.
I knelt in the snow, ignoring the way the cold seeped through my jeans. My bones ached constantly now—the cancer eating away at everything solid inside me. But this mattered more than pain.
"We're going to play a different game today," I told him, scratching behind his ears. "You need to learn something important."
I stood and walked twenty feet away, then turned to face him. Rocky sat perfectly, alert and ready. Such a good boy. Too good.
"Go!" I shouted, hurling the frisbee as hard as I could.
Rocky exploded forward, powerful legs churning through the snow. He caught the frisbee mid-leap, a perfect grab that would have made me cheer six months ago.
But when he turned to bring it back, I was already walking away.
"Don't look back, Rocky," I called over my shoulder, my voice catching. "Go! Keep going!"
He stopped, confused. The frisbee dropped from his mouth into the snow.
I forced myself to keep walking, even as I heard his questioning whine behind me. "Don't look back, baby. Please don't look back."
When I finally turned around, he was still standing there, frisbee at his feet, watching me with those liquid brown eyes that saw straight through to my soul.
My heart broke a little more.
We did it again. And again. Each time, I threw the frisbee further. Each time, I walked away faster. Each time, Rocky brought it back and waited for me to return.
On the seventh try, something shifted.
I threw the frisbee toward the tree line, and Rocky took off after it with his usual enthusiasm. But when he caught it, instead of turning back immediately, he paused. Looked at the frisbee. Looked at me in the distance.
Then he dropped it and kept running.
"Good boy," I whispered, tears freezing on my cheeks. "Good boy, Rocky. Don't look back."
I did these exercises in the hope that he wouldn't come looking for me when I'm about to die. After that, Sophie would help me take good care of him.
I sank to my knees in the snow and finally let myself cry.
In the afternoon, the pain hit while I was making coffee, a lightning bolt of agony that shot through my spine and dropped me to the kitchen floor. The mug shattered, sending ceramic shards across the worn linoleum.
"Emma!" Sophie's voice, sharp with panic. She was beside me in seconds, her hands gentle but urgent. "What's happening?"
"It's getting worse," I gasped between waves of pain. "The medication isn't—"
Another surge hit, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. The doctors had warned me this would happen. Stage four bone cancer doesn't negotiate. It takes everything, slowly, deliberately, until there's nothing left but agony.
Sophie helped me to the couch, her face tight with controlled fear. She'd been watching me deteriorate for two weeks now, trying to pretend everything was normal. Trying to pretend I wasn't dying right in front of her.
"I can drive you to Anchorage," she said, reaching for her keys. "There's a hospital—"
"No." The word came out harder than intended. "Sophie, no. We talked about this."
"That was before—" She gestured helplessly at my current state. "Before it got this bad."
I tried to sit up straighter, but my body rebelled. Everything hurt now—not just the cancer sites, but places that shouldn't hurt. My fingernails. My hair follicles. Even my eyelids felt bruised.
"Before what?" I asked gently. "Before the inevitable became undeniable?"
Sophie's face crumpled. "I can't just watch you—"
"Yes, you can," I interrupted. "Because you're the only person who's ever seen me as I am instead of what I could give them. And right now, what I need is to finish this my way."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek. "What do you need?"
"Help me record something."
Sophie set up her camera on the kitchen table while I tried to make myself look presentable. It was a losing battle—the cancer had carved twenty pounds from my frame, leaving my clothes hanging loose and my cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
But my eyes were clear. For the first time in years, my eyes were completely clear.
"Ready?" Sophie asked, her finger hovering over the record button.
I nodded.
The red light blinked on, and suddenly I was talking to ghosts.
"Hi, Mom." My voice was steadier than I expected. "I know you're probably angry with me for disappearing. For canceling the wedding. For making a scene."
I paused, gathering my thoughts. In the camera's reflection, I could see Sophie crying silently behind the lens.
"I want you to know that I don't hate you. I really don't. I just wish you could have seen me. Not Emma the donor, or Emma the strong one, or Emma who doesn't need as much attention. Just... me."
The words came easier now, like a dam finally breaking.
"I wish you could have loved me the way I was instead of the way I tried to be for you."
I stopped recording and took a shaky breath.
"Next," I whispered.
