Raven
Sleep never comes.
I lie on my back listening to the sounds that have always made this place feel like home. The creek murmurs beyond the open window. Leaves whisper against one another in the breeze. Somewhere deeper in the woods, an owl calls into the darkness before everything grows quiet again.
Beside me, Sam hasn't slept either.
I know it without looking. His breathing never settles. Every so often, his fingers drift absently across my side, as though he needs the reassurance that I'm still here.
After a long while, he rolls onto his side, his arm slipping around my waist.
"You sure?" he asks, his voice barely more than a breath.
The question hangs between us.
He's asking if I'm certain about refusing treatment. If I'm certain about choosing whatever time we have over whatever time chemotherapy might buy.
For just a moment, I let myself imagine a different answer. One where this disease isn't already woven through me. One where saying yes means there's still something to save.
But wishing won’t change the truth.
"Yes."
The word is quiet.
Sam searches my face as though he's hoping to find some hesitation I haven't spoken aloud.
"Okay."
The word costs him.
I hear it in the way he exhales afterward, in the silence that follows.
His hand finds mine beneath the blankets, our fingers weaving together until there's no space left between them.
"We'll have to tell them," I say.
"Knox is going to lose his mind."
A small smile finds me. "He's my brother. That's his job."
Sam's fingers tighten around mine before relaxing again. "He's not going to understand."
"No." I let out a slow breath. "Not at first."
"And your dad?"
The smile disappears as I stare up at the ceiling.
"He'll understand."
Silence settles between us. We both know why.
"Yeah," Sam says quietly.
The word carries more grief than anything else we've said tonight.
After a while, he speaks again, almost as though he's thinking out loud.
"Then we make the time count."
I turn toward him.
He's staring at the ceiling now, that familiar look settling over his face—the one that always appears when he's working through the impossible, turning it over until he finds somewhere to begin.
It's the same expression he wears in the garage when a bike arrives in pieces, and everyone else says it isn't worth saving.
"What does that look like?" I ask.
His eyes meet mine. "Whatever you want."
I can't help smiling. "You might regret saying that."
His smile grows, small but certain.
"Never."
Outside the window, the creek slips through the darkness, unchanged by everything that's happened today.
"I want to tell them tomorrow," I whisper.
He doesn't hesitate.
"Tomorrow."
Our fingers remain intertwined between us.
For tonight, that answer is enough.