The second time you hear you have cancer, it doesn’t bring the same frantic panic. It brings a cold, suffocating exhaustion.

You already know the terrain of that particular hell — the smell, the pain, the endless nights of vomiting until your ribs ache.

But this time the cancer had mutated. It was aggressive, vicious, and resistant to the standard chemotherapy that had saved me at thirteen.

I sat in Dr. Lawson’s office, clutching Laura’s hand so tightly my knuckles ached.

“We need to pivot to an experimental targeted immunotherapy,” he said, grim. “A new biologic drug. It’s shown incredible success in cases exactly like Emily’s.”

“Then we do it,” Laura said, not missing a beat. “When do we start?”