As he looked at the food, my pale face flickered through his mind. The cut on my hand. My back at the stove—so thin I looked like I might snap in a strong wind.
Panic seized him. In that moment, Jonathan realized he couldn't recall what I used to look like—the vibrancy, the fire I once held.
A sharp pain struck his chest. An indescribable unease and guilt rose like bile in his throat.
His hands trembling, he grabbed his phone and dialed.
The next day, I took Jonathan to the hospital for his follow-up.
Dr. Jordan Armstrong, his attending physician, practically vibrated with excitement. "Miss James, incredible news. A private research institute abroad has developed an experimental ALS treatment. Clinical trials are showing remarkable results—only two spots left, and I secured one for your brother."
He was selling it hard. I simply nodded. "What are the odds of recovery?"
"Eighty percent."
Jonathan played his part perfectly, tears welling in his eyes. "Hazel, did you hear that? I can get better. I can stay with you forever."
I forced the corners of my mouth up. "That's good. If only one of us can survive, I want it to be you."
Jonathan froze.