Samuel
The parking lot outside the oncology center looks exactly the same as it did when we pulled in. Cars angled neatly between white lines. A woman talking on her phone near the entrance. Someone laughing too loudly at something that doesn’t matter.
The air has shifted since morning. Early September does that. It cools just enough to hint at something ending. There’s a faint dryness to it now, like summer has started loosening its grip.
Raven walks beside me without reaching for my hand. Not because she’s pulling away. Because she’s holding herself together.
I unlock the truck, and Raven climbs in while I make my way around to the driver's side. For a moment, I just sit there, my hands resting on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything.
When I finally start the engine, the sound fills the cab, too loud against everything neither of us knows how to say.
Raven sits beside me with her hands folded in her lap, staring out the window at the trees beyond the parking lot. She isn't crying anymore.
She's just… quiet.
That steadiness scares me more than anything else.
I should say something. I should tell her we’ll find someone else. Another specialist. Another plan. I should promise something.
Instead, I back out slowly, like control over small things still matters. And I drive.
Around us, the world keeps moving.
A man jogs past with a dog straining at its leash. A couple crosses at the light, arguing about something small and probably forgettable. The sun hits the windshield at the wrong angle, and I squint, irritated by something as ordinary as glare.
Months.
Weeks.
The words replay without permission.
I keep my eyes on the road because if I look at her, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep myself together.
The steering wheel presses hard into my palms. My grip tightens without me realizing it, and I have to force my fingers to loosen before they go numb.
This is a problem, and all problems have solutions.
There are surgeons in other states. Other countries. Experimental treatments. I start building a list in my head, organizing it the way I would any other crisis.
I can fix this.
I have to fix this.
Because there is no me without her.
We stop at a red light, and I glance over before I can stop myself. She’s staring straight ahead now, not at the trees.
At nothing.
Her reflection in the window looks thinner than it did this morning.
“Rae—” I start.
But then the light changes and the word dissolves in my mouth.
By the time we turn onto the dirt road leading to our cottage, the sky has shifted toward evening. I pull into the driveway and cut the engine.
Raven reaches for the handle and opens her door before I can say anything.
I’m out a second later.
She’s already walking toward the front path, her steps even, measured.
“Raven,” I call.
She stops, but doesn’t turn around. “Just…give me a few minutes.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
She nods once and continues around to the back yard, disappearing behind the house.
My arms hang uselessly by my sides as I try to imagine walking inside and sitting at the kitchen table. Pretending this is a normal afternoon.
I can’t.
Nothing about this is normal. Nothing about this is okay.
Raven asked for a few minutes. I give them to her. But I can’t stay here listening to the suffocating silence.
I don’t call after her.
I don’t tell her where I’m going.
I don’t trust my voice.
I just need movement.
The engine roars to life beneath me, steady and familiar, louder than the silence surrounding me.
For a second, I wonder if she hears it. If she knows I’m not leaving her. That I’m just trying to outrun the word weeks.
I pull out of the driveway and let the road lead me.
Right now, it's the only thing I know how to do.