“Yeah,” said Lauren, her smile dropping. “It felt that way.”

Josh gave her a sharp look.

“This kind of episode is going to happen from time to time,” the doctor continued. “The absolute best thing to do is get in to see me the second you feel any additional difficulty breathing. Even if you’re imagining it, or it’s caused by a weather change, I want to see you. No toughing it out, because every time you get sick, you lose a little lung capacity, and it’s gone forever.”

“Gotcha,” Lauren said.

“And, Josh, you have a background in medicine to some degree, right?”

“Sort of.” His voice was flat.

“I’d like to teach you to listen for changes in her breath sounds with a stethoscope.”

“Yep. Fine.”

“We can play doctor,” Lauren said to him.

He didn’t smile back. Not even a flicker.

“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Dr. Bennett said. “Keep up the good work, and I’ll see if I can discharge you.”

“Thank you,” Lauren said. Then she fell asleep.

* * *

SHE SENT JOSH home later that evening so he could shower, take a walk with Ben Kim (Yoda to his Luke Skywalker, Lauren always said), see his mom and bring Lauren the dinner Mrs. Kim had made for them.

She also needed some time alone. Once the sweet nurse left after taking her vitals, Lauren closed the door, got back in bed, and took a few slow breaths.

She didn’t have asthma. She wasn’t someone who coughed a little more than usual. Her lungs were not going to get better. She would die from this disease. She didn’t know when, but she did know how.

She was terminal. It wasn’t if . . . it was when. It was coming. A decade, or a half, or a year or a month, but last week, she and Death had wrestled, and this time—this time—Lauren had won.

Barely.

Her lips trembled. She swallowed and considered the facts.

Her life would be short.

For a few minutes, that was all there was. She would die young. She would not grow old. This kind of feral fighting to breathe, these hospitalizations would happen again and again until she lost. Until she died.

Her eyes filled with tears.

At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she looked up, expecting Josh.

It wasn’t Josh. It was a father, carrying a small, heartbreakingly thin child with no hair, no eyebrows and a cannula in her nose. Lauren knew it was a girl because she had on a flowery hairband. The little girl didn’t lift her head from her father’s shoulder, but she saw Lauren and smiled. Instinctively, Lauren waved.

Then they were past her doorway.

As quickly as she could, Lauren got up and went to the door, dragging her IV pole with her. She looked down the hall, but the little girl and her father were gone.

“You okay, Mrs. Park?” the nurse asked.

“Um . . . a little girl and her dad just went past?”

The nurse nodded. Her eyes filled with tears.

“She didn’t look so good,” Lauren said, her own tears falling.

“I can’t discuss another patient,” the nurse said, but her mouth wobbled, and Lauren knew.

The little girl was terminal, too.

Lauren stood there, leaning against the doorframe on her weak and shaking legs, for as long as she could.

* * *

WHEN JOSH CAME back, shaved, adorable, smelling delicious and holding food, they ate, him sitting on the foot of her bed. Sumi had made that fabulous sticky chicken with sesame seeds, and Steph had contributed grilled brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes with sour cream to put some meat on her bones, Josh reported.

When they were done and Josh had cleared the plates, Lauren patted the bed again. Josh sat down, kissed her hand and then looked at her. His expression grew somber.

“So, honey,” she began, holding his hand tight in hers. “I think we need to talk.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I’m going to die from this,” she said, her voice shaking. “Not today. But I . . . yeah.” It was the first time she’d said it aloud. “I’ll die from this.”

“No. No, you’re not. We have to stay positive.”

“Well, I’ve been—”

In a rare move, he interrupted her. “I’ve already talked to someone at Johns Hopkins. They have something really promising in development. You’re on the list when human trials—”

“Josh, please. We have to be realistic.”

“—start, and so far, the results are fantastic.”

“In mice,” she said. He wasn’t the only one researching IPF.

“Yes. In mice.” His jaw tightened.

“I need to talk about the future.”

“And you will be fine in the future,” he said.

“Joshua!” she said, then coughed. “Please listen.”

“No!” he barked, then lowered his voice. “No, Lauren. You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

“Okay, God.” She forced a smile. “Good to be married to the Almighty. If you were a mere mortal, this might be a disaster, but lucky for me, you won’t let me die.”

“Don’t,” he bit off, staring at the wall. “The cure is right on the horizon.”

“For mice.” Most of these promising mouse cures didn’t make it to human trials. And even if they did, most of the patients with IPF wouldn’t be alive when that day came.