Christopher squeezed my fingers.

I looked at my husband.

Forty-three years old.

Healthy six months earlier.

Still coaching Mason’s baseball team in the spring.

Still complaining that Paisley used all the hot water every morning.

Still leaving his shoes directly beside the laundry basket instead of inside it as if fifteen years of marriage had taught him absolutely nothing.

“How long?”

I asked.

Dr.

Bennett explained treatment options.

Comfort.

Possible chemotherapy if Christopher wanted to attempt it.

Weeks.