All I know is that I have two choices – stay wrapped in blankets and get on with dying, or get the list back together and get on with living.

"I like you," he said. He made it sound as if she was bound to disagree with him. She nodded. His face said he was telling her something very important. He said, "I mean it. Whatever happens, you have to believe that."

I miss him as soon as he goes. When he isn't with me, I think I made him up.

Parents don't know their children at all. No one knows anyone, in fact.

Like a tree losing its leaves. I forget even the thing I was thinking.

Keep breathing. Just keep doing it. It's easy. In and out.

Her face crashes. She hasn't dealt with a single transfusion or lumbar puncture. She wasn't allowed near me for the bone-marrow transplant, but she could have been there for any number of diagnoses, and wasn't. Even her promises to visit more often have faded away with Christmas. It's her turn to taste some reality.