In late June, Denise called me into her office.
“New patient,” she said, sliding a folder across the desk. “Julian Mercer. Forty years old. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Lives alone on Linden Street. No family listed except a sister, and she’s marked ‘do not contact.’”
“Forty,” I said. “That’s young.”
“It is.” Denise hesitated. “There’s one odd thing. He requested you. By name.”
“Me? I don’t know anyone named Julian.”
“He said a friend recommended you.” She shrugged. “People talk. You’ve got a good reputation.”
I believed her.
I had no reason not to.
For illustrative purposes only
Part 3: The Proposal
Julian’s house was a small yellow two-story with a porch swing that squeaked on the left side. The first time I knocked, he opened the door wearing a gray Ohio State hoodie that hung off him like a blanket on a chair.
He was thin in the way only sick people are thin. But his eyes were warm and quick, and when he smiled, he looked like someone who’d been waiting for a friend.
