I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in one of the stalls. Crouching beside the toilet, I cried and dry-heaved. My hands shook uncontrollably, and my breaths came in and out raggedly.
I knew I had to do something about my diagnosis, but what? Telling anyone about it was out of the question. Going back to the doctor was useless, too; it was terminal, after all.
Yet there was so much to do regarding my…death. Funeral arrangements. A will.
There just wasn’t enough time—but I had an idea of where to start.
I heard my phone ding in my purse. When I pulled it out, I found a message from Arthur.
R u OK? We can leave if u want.
I took a few minutes to force myself to calm down. With still shaking hands, I typed out a reply.
