I shrugged and remarked, “What? It’s Friday. Nothing big happens in the last hour on a Friday.”“We’ve got a mountain of work to get through ...efore you leave me juggling all your crap,” she complained.“But we’ve still gotta eat,” I argued. “And if you want to discuss work, then come along.”June shook her head. “We’re staying here. You can run out to The Sentinel and bring back a couple of sandwiches. You like The Sentinel,” she reasoned and turned to face the monitor again, the discussion over. I wanted to just deny it all, pretend I never heard anything and admonish this diagnosis from reality. I wanted to wake up and this would all be one terrible dream and I would be home in bed with my head rattling from another hangover. But my mother was right there, her arms around my shoulders. She was there to tell me it was going to be all right, that this would be dealt with and beat. She had never before done this, comforted me like this and tried to sooth my pain away. Least not since I. More

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