And then there was Josh, hovering, glancing at her when she coughed. “Honey, I’m fine,” she snapped one night. “Can you please not bury me yet?” He didn’t answer. She huffed and went to bed, and he came in a half hour later and took her in his arms and said he loved her. It was impossible to stay mad.

Two more X-rays, two CAT scans, one high-resolution CAT scan, a pulmonary function test, a second pulmonary function test, one bronchoscopy (even with sedation, that was nasty). The questions were endless and irritatingly repetitive: Was she a smoker? History of asthma? Pneumonia? Tell us again how your father died. When did you go to Hawaii? Where did you stay? Swim? Eat? Were you exposed to asbestos, silicone dust, heavy metals, contaminated air-conditioning systems, moldy foliage, pigeon droppings?

“Of course I’ve been exposed to pigeon poop!” Lauren yelled the umpteenth time she was asked. “And moldy leaves! Hasn’t everyone? Just give me some damn cough medicine that actually works!”

So when Dr. Bennett called her and asked her to come in “with your husband,” Lauren was almost relieved. Finally, they’d figured it out. Some weird pneumonia she’d caught on the plane to Hawaii, probably.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Bennett said when they arrived at her office. “And please, call me Kwana.”

A good sign or a bad sign, to be on a first-name basis with your doctor? Lauren felt cold, suddenly.

“Hi, Kwana!” she said, as if being cheery would make everything okay. “I love your hair.” Over the holidays, Dr. Bennett had gone from shiny, straight hair to multiple braids twisted into a bun. And hey. If she wanted to be called Kwana, that was fine. They’d get out of this appointment, Kwana would apologize for being so aggressive, when gosh, it was just this one thing, here was the cure, and absolutely, she’d love to come out for drinks one night!

Except Lauren’s heart was beating too hard. She took a slow, deliberate breath. All good. No cough, not right now, see?

“Does it take forever, those braids?” she asked. Talking about hair was much, much better than anything Lauren could think of at this moment.

“It takes a while, yes.” Kwana seemed to be very still. Josh took Lauren’s hand. His was sweaty.

“Okay,” said Kwana. “We’ve done every test we can, and we did a couple twice. It looks like idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.” Lots of syllables in that one. “We had a tough time diagnosing it because we wanted to be sure. It’s not a common disease in someone so young.”

“Okay,” Lauren said. So they had a name for it, and she’d take medicine and it would clear up.

She looked at Josh. His face was gray. Nope. Gonna ignore your face, babe. “What’s the plan, then?”

There was a pause. Another fucking pause, and suddenly, Lauren was shaking. She couldn’t look at Josh, because . . . because . . .

“Now, don’t panic,” Dr. Bennett said. “What happens with this disease”—disease? That sounded horrible!—“is that your lungs create a fibrous tissue. Scarring. We don’t know why. Some people who work with asbestos or fine particulates get it. Yours is called idiopathic, because we don’t know why you have it.” She paused, looking at both of them in turn to make sure they were following. My husband is a genius, lady, Lauren wanted to say. You don’t need to slow down for him.

On the other hand, Lauren was having some trouble hearing. There was a persistent, high-pitched buzz in her ears. Defense mechanism, probably, to block out—

“The problem is, the scarring takes up room in your lungs. That’s why you’ve had problems breathing.”

“I really haven’t! I mean, just a little. Once in a while.”

Kwana nodded. “Right. And it’s great that we caught it early. There are some very good medications that can slow this thing down.”

“Great!”

“And oxygen to help you when you’re short of breath.”

“Wait. What? I don’t need to be on oxygen? I mean, I fainted one time! Twice! But one time after a long hike and not enough hydration, and the other time, because . . . because . . .” Her voice had the hint of hysteria in it, and she let it trail off.

“Well,” Kwana said gently, “there will probably be times down the road when you will need it, and it’ll make you feel significantly better. A lot less tired.”

“But I’m fine. I mean, I really feel quite . . . quite good.” She looked at Josh. He didn’t look at her. He wasn’t blinking. Just staring at Dr. Bennett.

Oh . . . shit. He shut down like this when big things happened. He just got really, really quiet. Like when his favorite professor had died a few months before they got married. He didn’t talk, he didn’t cry, he just went into this . . . nothingness. When she’d called his mom to ask if he was okay, she said he’d done the same thing when her father had died when Josh was twenty.

But they had died. She wasn’t about to do that. Whatever was wrong with her, she’d handle. Joshua Park would not have a sick wife. She wouldn’t put him in that position.

“Okay,” she said, sounding more like herself. Good. Good. “So the meds, maybe oxygen in the future . . . anything else?”

There was another pause. “We’ll get into respiratory therapy to maximize your lung function.”

“Got it. Sure. And how long does this last?” No answer. “I mean, when will I be back to my old self?”

Kwana—Dr. Bennett—didn’t answer for a second.

“What is the cure, Kwana?” Lauren asked loudly.

Josh turned to look at her, finally. Finally. “There is no cure,” he said quietly.

The words took a few seconds to land.

“What?” Lauren shouted. Then, freakishly, she laughed. “Well, that’s not helpful.” She looked at both her doctor and her husband, then swallowed. “Seriously?”