My treatments cost a lot of money. One day, I heard Dr. O’Neal tell Mom not to worry about that right now. She really wants to kill this cancer.

Dr. O’Neal is my best friend even if she is old. She likes me. Sometimes she tells Mom to take a break, and even if Mom says no, Dr. O’Neal shoos her out and stays with me for a while. We talk about a lot of stuff. Everything but my cancer. I think she doesn’t want me to know how bad it is, but if it wasn’t bad, I wouldn’t be here, would I?

We talk about how being a ballerina must be the best thing in the world to be.

She brought me a coloring book with just ballerinas in it. We’ve colored nearly all the pages, but she said that when that book is full, she’ll get me another one. She painted my toenails pink, the color of ballet slippers. She says someday I’ll be a famous ballerina, and she’ll come to see my show and wave to me from the audience.

But I might be a Rockette instead. She could still wave to me.

Dr. Lambert would probably never come to see me in a show. He’s very busy and always in a hurry.

Yesterday, Dr. O’Neal brought me a Thanksgiving card. On the front was a silly turkey wearing a Pilgrim hat. I put the card on the table next to my bed. Dr. O’Neal wished me a happy Thanksgiving and told me she had something very important to do, but that she would be back soon.

She hasn’t come today, though. But maybe she will. I hope so. I need to tell her that I don’t feel good. I hate to tell her that. But she needs to know if she’s going to kick the cancer’s butt.

But I don’t want Mom to know that I don’t feel good. She’s already scared I’m going to die.

Chapter 18

6:27 p.m.

Rye left Brynn sitting on the bed and went into the bathroom to wash his hands. He wrapped a cloth around the leaky cuts. When he came back, he opened the minibar fridge. “Name your poison.”

“Water, please.”

“It’s on Dash.”

“Just water.”

He passed Brynn a bottle of water and opened a can of Coke for himself, then dragged the desk chair over and straddled it, facing her.

“Who’s your patient, Brynn?”

“A seven-year-old girl named Violet.”

“She’s dying?”

“Probably before she turns eight. Unless I’m granted a compassionate use exemption for her.”

“She’s the patient you applied for?”

“To no avail.”

“What’s the hiccup?”

“Largely funding. For an exemption trial, the product company must be willing to provide the drug, and GX-42 doesn’t come cheaply. For one patient, it wouldn’t be cost effective.”

Rye propped his elbow on the back of the chair and rubbed his thumb across his lips. “Does Violet live here in Atlanta?”

“Outside Knoxville. Working middle class family, and it takes the incomes of both parents to support it. Her mother is on leave from her job. Violet has two older brothers. Coming here has imposed a tremendous hardship on all of them. Financially, emotionally. Every way. But all were willing to make sacrifices in order to send Violet here.”

“To be treated by you.”

She gave a modest shrug. “The research I’ve done has been documented in medical journals. Violet’s oncologist in Tennessee recommended me.”

“You’re famous?”

She smiled at that. “My name is familiar to a few who specialize in hematologic cancers.”

“Lambert?”

“Much better known.”

“He sees to it.”

“Nate has an inflated ego, yes.”

“Who is Hunt?”

She gave a significant pause, then said, “Senator Richard Hunt of Georgia.”

Rye stared at her, almost expecting a punch line, but Brynn was as somber as a death knell. Losing taste for the cold drink, he turned in his chair and set the can on the dresser. Coming back to Brynn, he said, “Well, shit.”

“You know of him?”

“I’ve heard of Senator Hunt a lot, but till now I couldn’t have told you what state he’s from.”

“He’s serving his second term in office. You’ve heard of him because he places himself in the middle of things and seems to thrive on keeping the congressional waters churned. He can be a charmer, an arm-twister, or a gladiator, depending on the issue under debate and the strength of his opposition. He’s handsome and knows it. He plays the media like a maestro.”

“How’d he make his money?”

“Sole heir of his family’s company.” She named it, but Rye wasn’t familiar with it. “Manufacturer of portable buildings. Construction site offices. Temporary housing units.”

“Like FEMA uses?”

“Yes.”

Rye cocked an eyebrow.

Brynn said, “He sold out before running for office to avoid a conflict of interest.”

“Oh, of course,” he said with only a trace of conviction. If Richard Hunt would pay for a pharmaceutical not yet available to anyone else, he’d cheat at other things, too. “Family?”

“Happily married to second wife, Delores. No children from either marriage.”

“How old is he?”