He asks, “What happened to make you so fearful? How can you choose this,” meaning the coughing, the blood, the wasting away to an inevitable end, “over the possibility of a cure? Or at least something to ease the pain? It’s irrational. What do you think will happen to you if you try to get help?”

What I don’t say is, No fear is irrational if it’s based on experience.

What I don’t say is, Not one more needle; not one more test or drug or locked door; I will choke to death on my own blood first.

What I don’t say is, I am more terrified of going back there than I am of leaving you.

All I do say is, “I was sent where all lost things go. I won’t return there, or to its like.” He’ll figure it out in time. If I’m lucky, it’ll be long after I’m gone. Until then, darling, count yourself blessed you even get half answers. This part of the tale isn’t for you.

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