a framed photograph of a mountain on the wall. A small clock ticked above the door. Jack was holding my hand so tightly that my fingers began to ache.
The doctor explained that Jack had an advanced form of cancer.
It had already spread.
There were treatment options, but the prognosis was poor.
I heard the words, but I couldn’t make them fit into the life I knew.
Jack asked questions.
What stage was it?
What could be done?
How quickly did we need to begin treatment?
Was there another
