He said he would need to stay in the hospital for a few days at a time.
Mika listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she asked, “Will the medicine make the bad cells leave?”
“That is what we hope.”
“And if you get scared, will you wake me up instead of talking when I’m asleep?”
A tear ran down his face.
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She held out her smallest finger.
He linked his around it.
At the hospital, the illusion of Ramón’s control disappeared quickly.
Nurses who once greeted him as Doctor now told him to sit, remove his shoes, extend his arm, and wait.
A young resident arrived with admission forms and froze when she recognized him.
Two colleagues appeared at the door, their expressions shifting from professional concern to quiet anger.
One of them, Dr.
Villanueva, closed the door behind him.
“You covered my overnight shift three days after your biopsy?”
Ramón looked away.
“You nearly fainted in the operating lounge,” the doctor continued.
“You said you had skipped lunch.”
“I had skipped lunch.”
“You also had cancer.”
The room fell silent.
A nurse named Liza entered carrying a plastic bag containing Ramón’s clothes.
Her eyes met mine and immediately filled with guilt.
“He asked us not to call you,” she said.
“The night of his biopsy, I offered to drive him home.
He said you were dealing with your mother’s memorial and that he would tell you after the results.”
My mother had died the previous year.
Ramón had stood beside me through the funeral, the paperwork, and the months when grief made ordinary tasks feel impossible.
Part of him had decided that because I had once broken, I would always be breakable.
I touched Liza’s arm.
“This was not your secret to expose.”
Ramón heard the distinction.
It had been his.
Dr.
Santos arrived with a treatment plan.
She spoke plainly.
The lymphoma had spread beyond the original lymph nodes, but there was no evidence of involvement in his brain or bone marrow.
She recommended starting combination chemotherapy immediately, followed by scans to measure the response.
“There are risks,” she said.
“Infection, heart strain, nerve problems, severe fatigue.
But delay carries its own risk, and that risk is growing.”
Ramón read every page twice.
Then he reached the consent line and stopped.
His hand hovered above the pen.
I did not grab it.
I did not beg.
I placed my phone beside the form and played the camera recording.
His whisper filled the hospital room.
“I just don’t know how many nights I have left.”
He flinched.
“That man had already surrendered,” I said.
“Sign as the man who wants more nights.”
Ramón picked up the pen.
He signed.
The first cycle began that afternoon.
Nothing about treatment was cinematic.
There was no single dramatic infusion followed by instant courage.
There were plastic tubes, antiseptic smells, interrupted sleep, metallic tastes, repeated blood tests, and hours when Ramón could not lift his head without nausea.
The man who had worked thirty-hour shifts became exhausted walking to the bathroom.
At first, he apologized for everything.
He apologized when I helped him shower.
He apologized when Mika saw the first clump of hair on his pillow.
He apologized when I canceled work, when neighbors brought food, and when
