Samuel
Every mile should put more distance between me and the doctor's office.
It doesn't.
The road unwinds beneath the tires in a blur of trees, fields, and houses I've driven past a hundred times before, but I couldn't tell you where any of them are. The wind tears at my jacket while the engine hums beneath me, steady and familiar, yet neither is enough to silence the doctor's voice.
Stage IV.
Not curable.
No matter how hard I twist the throttle, those words keep finding me.
I don't remember making the turn. One minute I'm riding, the next I'm pulling into the clubhouse parking lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires as I roll to a stop.
I stay where I am, my hands still wrapped around the grips. Raven’s home. She shouldn't have to sit with this by herself. But I don't know how to walk through that door pretending I believe what the doctor said.
The garage is the only place that still makes sense.
The overhead door groans as it rolls open, and the familiar smell of oil, metal, rubber, and burnt steel settles around me. Usually it reminds me that almost anything can be repaired if you're willing to put in the time.
Today it doesn't.
I set my helmet on the workbench and brace both hands against the scarred wood.
Weeks to months.
No. That’s impossible. They can't know all of that from one scan. There has to be more tests. Another opinion. Someone who's seen this before.
People beat impossible odds every day.
Why not Raven?
Three weeks ago, she was laughing in our kitchen because we thought she might be pregnant. Three weeks. That's all it took for our future to become something I don't recognize anymore.
My grip tightens until the edge of the bench bites into my palms. Before I can think better of it, I shove the helmet off the workbench. It crashes onto the concrete, skids across the garage, and slams into the far wall.
The echo hangs in the silence long after the helmet comes to rest.
But it’s not loud enough.
Not even close.
My arm sweeps across the workbench, sending a tray of sockets clattering to the floor. Tools scatter. A torque wrench bounces once and rolls beneath the lift. The sound explodes outward, metal on concrete, sharp and ugly.
Still not enough.
I slam my fist down on the bench. The sting shoots up my arm, immediate and familiar.
Pain I understand.
Pain I can measure.
This… this thing growing inside her is something I don’t understand. There are no bolts to loosen. No parts to replace.
I grab the nearest chair and fling it across the garage. It crashes into the tool cabinet, leaving a dent in the metal. The rolling cart goes over with one hard shove. Oil cans scatter across the concrete, one splitting open on impact. Dark oil creeps across the floor in an uneven stain.
My breathing comes hard now, not from the effort but from something clawing its way up my chest.
There has to be something.
Someone.
A doctor who doesn't accept weeks.
My hand catches the edge of the lift. Metal rings through the garage as my boot slams into the base. The place that's always been ordered now looks like a storm tore through it. Tools lie where they fell. Oil glistens across the concrete.
Good.
Let it look the way I feel.
Both hands rake through my hair as I pace the length of the garage, my boots leaving dark tracks through the oil.
This is a problem.
Problems have solutions.
“We need to get another opinion.” The words leave my mouth before I realize I'm saying them. “Maybe on the West Coast. Hell, we’ll go to Europe if that’s what it takes.”
The phone nearly slips from my hand as I pull it from my pocket. My fingers aren't steady anymore. It doesn't matter, I open the web browser and start searching. The words come faster than I can think.
Advanced ovarian cancer.
Stage IV treatment.
Aggressive surgery.
Every search seems determined to tell me how this ends. I skip the survival statistics. Skip the word incurable. Skip anything that sounds like someone’s already decided.
I'm not looking for averages.
I'm looking for the one person who beat them.
Raven will be that person.
She has to be.
A surgeon in California finally catches my attention, someone known for treating advanced cases that other doctors won't touch. I punch in his number, but the call goes straight to voicemail.
My message is calm, almost detached, as I explain who Raven is and why we need help. Before the call has even ended, I'm forwarding every report, every scan, and every pathology result to the email address on the website.
We'll fly across the country if that's what it takes.
We'll sell the cottage.
Sell everything.
There isn't a single thing I own that's worth more than her life.
The confirmation email disappears into my sent folder. Only then do I lean back against the workbench and drag a hand over my face. The garage is quiet again, except for the hum of the lights overhead.
Footsteps scrape against gravel outside seconds before the garage door lifts halfway. Mouse ducks beneath it, his gaze sweeping over the room. The helmet lies against the far wall. Oil glistens across the concrete, tools are scattered where they fell, and the rolling cart is tipped onto its side.
His eyes finally settle on me. “What happened?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Because if I say it out loud, if I say cancer in this room, it becomes real. And I’m not ready for it to be real.
Mouse’s gaze shifts to my hand, already swelling.
“Wolf?”
I shake my head once.
Not now.
He studies me another second, then nods like he understands something I didn’t explain. “Whatever it is,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to handle it alone.”
The words land and slide off because this isn’t something anyone else can carry.
I bend down, pick up the helmet, brush the dust from it with my sleeve. The crack in the casing catches my thumb.
I don’t look at him when I speak. “I’ve got it.”
Mouse doesn’t argue. He steps back as I head for my bike.
The engine roars to life beneath me. Gravel spits beneath the rear tire as I pull onto the road. The throttle twists beneath my hand, and the clubhouse disappears in my mirrors.
We go wherever we have to.
We spend whatever it costs.
We find the doctor who says the others are wrong.
Because this story doesn't end here