In front of the glowing furnace in the basement of Ars Medica, I was feverishly leafing through copy after copy of the New England Journal of Medicine. It was Hodgkins, alright. As far as I was concerned no medical tests were needed. Once the tumor in my neck got big enough, it would choke off my air supply, and I’d die by a slow process of strangulation. Hodgkins Disease was a death sentence. I accepted my self-diagnosis on the spot, letting a familiar dark sadness flow into my veins. My face was about to burst into flames like those pages I was tossing into the fire. I thought about what my uncle said about my godmother freezing to death. Then I felt Chicago’s body burn in what must’ve been the fire from hell when the bar and grill got torched. I remembered the first time Chicago gave me
