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Description
Prologue
Imagine yourself in a room. This room is filled to the brim with chairs, but yours is the only one that's filled. Imagine the air around you smells faintly of soap and newborn babies. Imagine the tension that's filling the room. It's making it hard to breathe....

Imagine the fear. The fear of the verdict. You can feel it now, can't you? Seeping into every pore, running through your veins plainly as if it were blood.... It's the fear that is weighing the air down. That's making your chest heavy. It's the fear that has you poised uncomfortably on the tip of your chair, hands coiled tightly around the armrests.

Your eyes are fixed on the door. Specifically, the doorknob. It is now that you wish you had mind powers, for you're wasting all your energy on making sure it doesn't move. It's making your head hurt, but you don't stop. You stare on.

Imagine the sweat on your palms; on your forehead; on your underarms.... It's quite hot. You're wishing there was a fan, maybe a window. One hand breaks free of the armrest and tugs on the collar of your shirt. Surely it hadn't been that tight before?

You're wishing, and you're wishing hard. You're wishing that you had someone here with you—yet at the same time you're thanking whatever let you come alone—You're wishing that you were someone else.... Anyone else....

Your phone is tucked in your pocket. You could take it out, call someone and talk to them to relieve the tension, but you don't. You can't move.

Your tongue nervously darts out and wets your lips. The doorknob, it's turning.... You squint your eyes and think over and over, No, it's not happening, I'm imaging it, I'm dreaming...

Thoughts aren't as powerful as we wish them to be. You hitch your breath as the door swings open. You have the urge to close your eyes; you've got it lodged somewhere in your mind that it'll make everything easier. However, you watch the person in the doorway with baited breath.

They're talking, but you only hear half of what they're saying. Your mind is closing the words off. It doesn't want to hear them. Your hands tighten on the chair, and you've lost all the feeling in them. The warm air is making you feel light-headed. Stop talking.... No.... Make it stop....

No matter how much you're in denial, the words filling the room are pushing their way into your head. You're enveloped in shock, and you find yourself shaking your head. No... Whether the word is spoken aloud or not isn't important.

It's becoming harder and harder to breath. Panicked eyes dart around the room. Your hand slips and falls uselessly at your side. It doesn't matter how many times No runs through your mind. It doesn't change the truth.

You have cancer.

1. Darin
Summer is at its peak, and gnats are gathering around Darin's head in swarms. He swats at them, annoyed; for the last hour and a half he's been in their company. It's barely eleven; two hours to go. He's now wishing that he never signed up for the stupid thing. Marathons... what pointless things they are....

"It's good for your body," Charlotte told him. "I wish I could go with you, but you know Amy... she insists I go to every one of her games."

"I'm sure she'd want me there too," he'd said. "Listen, I'll do it next year." Charlotte had pursed her lips and stared at the ground. Neither of them said anything, but their thoughts were the same: There might not be a next year. After that, Darin had agreed to sign up. It was free, anyways. And Amy had plenty of other games he could go to.

Darin glances around him. Not a single soul is in sight. Of course, he's far behind everyone else.... He's not too out of shape, but the heat is getting to him. He finished his water bottle half an hour ago. Now he has nothing to soothe his dry throat.

He can quit now. The next checkpoint is less than half a mile away.... He could say he was going to get heat exhaustion (it wasn't a lie, either) and they could take him back to his car. As tempting as the proposition is, he can't help but imagine Charlotte's disappointment to find that he didn't finish it at all.

I'll finish, he thinks grudgingly. Only for Charlotte.

Amy's game must be over by now. Darin wonders how she did. It's only her second year of softball, and, though everyone hated to admit it, she isn't progressing as fast as she ought to be. No amount of hours of practice can make up for her lack of skill. She loves it, though. And that's what's most important.

He's been to five of her games this year. Every time he misses one, guilt tears at his heart. She's had a total of thirteen games so far; many of those have been scheduled at the same time as doctor's appointments. He's tried to avoid making them on the same day, but sometimes there's no choice.

Every time he told her he was sorry, that he'd make it next time, her little face fell and she told him that she understood; she didn't mind; there was always next time. He wished he could tell her how much she and her games meant to him.

The track must be nearly over now. Darin's passed the checkpoint, and is slowly picking up a run. He's been merely "trotting"—as you might call it—for the past mile or so, and it's taking him forever to finish.

Description
Prologue
Imagine yourself in a room. This room is filled to the brim with chairs, but yours is the only one that's filled. Imagine the air around you smells faintly of soap and newborn babies. Imagine the tension that's filling the room. It's making it hard to breathe....

Imagine the fear. The fear of the verdict. You can feel it now, can't you? Seeping into every pore, running through your veins plainly as if it were blood.... It's the fear that is weighing the air down. That's making your chest heavy. It's the fear that has you poised uncomfortably on the tip of your chair, hands coiled tightly around the armrests.

Your eyes are fixed on the door. Specifically, the doorknob. It is now that you wish you had mind powers, for you're wasting all your energy on making sure it doesn't move. It's making your head hurt, but you don't stop. You stare on.

Imagine the sweat on your palms; on your forehead; on your underarms.... It's quite hot. You're wishing there was a fan, maybe a window. One hand breaks free of the armrest and tugs on the collar of your shirt. Surely it hadn't been that tight before?

You're wishing, and you're wishing hard. You're wishing that you had someone here with you—yet at the same time you're thanking whatever let you come alone—You're wishing that you were someone else.... Anyone else....

Your phone is tucked in your pocket. You could take it out, call someone and talk to them to relieve the tension, but you don't. You can't move.

Your tongue nervously darts out and wets your lips. The doorknob, it's turning.... You squint your eyes and think over and over, No, it's not happening, I'm imaging it, I'm dreaming...

Thoughts aren't as powerful as we wish them to be. You hitch your breath as the door swings open. You have the urge to close your eyes; you've got it lodged somewhere in your mind that it'll make everything easier. However, you watch the person in the doorway with baited breath.

They're talking, but you only hear half of what they're saying. Your mind is closing the words off. It doesn't want to hear them. Your hands tighten on the chair, and you've lost all the feeling in them. The warm air is making you feel light-headed. Stop talking.... No.... Make it stop....

No matter how much you're in denial, the words filling the room are pushing their way into your head. You're enveloped in shock, and you find yourself shaking your head. No... Whether the word is spoken aloud or not isn't important.

It's becoming harder and harder to breath. Panicked eyes dart around the room. Your hand slips and falls uselessly at your side. It doesn't matter how many times No runs through your mind. It doesn't change the truth.

You have cancer.

1. Darin
Summer is at its peak, and gnats are gathering around Darin's head in swarms. He swats at them, annoyed; for the last hour and a half he's been in their company. It's barely eleven; two hours to go. He's now wishing that he never signed up for the stupid thing. Marathons... what pointless things they are....

"It's good for your body," Charlotte told him. "I wish I could go with you, but you know Amy... she insists I go to every one of her games."

"I'm sure she'd want me there too," he'd said. "Listen, I'll do it next year." Charlotte had pursed her lips and stared at the ground. Neither of them said anything, but their thoughts were the same: There might not be a next year. After that, Darin had agreed to sign up. It was free, anyways. And Amy had plenty of other games he could go to.

Darin glances around him. Not a single soul is in sight. Of course, he's far behind everyone else.... He's not too out of shape, but the heat is getting to him. He finished his water bottle half an hour ago. Now he has nothing to soothe his dry throat.

He can quit now. The next checkpoint is less than half a mile away.... He could say he was going to get heat exhaustion (it wasn't a lie, either) and they could take him back to his car. As tempting as the proposition is, he can't help but imagine Charlotte's disappointment to find that he didn't finish it at all.

I'll finish, he thinks grudgingly. Only for Charlotte.

Amy's game must be over by now. Darin wonders how she did. It's only her second year of softball, and, though everyone hated to admit it, she isn't progressing as fast as she ought to be. No amount of hours of practice can make up for her lack of skill. She loves it, though. And that's what's most important.

He's been to five of her games this year. Every time he misses one, guilt tears at his heart. She's had a total of thirteen games so far; many of those have been scheduled at the same time as doctor's appointments. He's tried to avoid making them on the same day, but sometimes there's no choice.

Every time he told her he was sorry, that he'd make it next time, her little face fell and she told him that she understood; she didn't mind; there was always next time. He wished he could tell her how much she and her games meant to him.

The track must be nearly over now. Darin's passed the checkpoint, and is slowly picking up a run. He's been merely "trotting"—as you might call it—for the past mile or so, and it's taking him forever to finish.