Chapter 11: The Old Man's Copy

I took the train back to Evanston at dawn with Scott's phone switched off in my coat pocket.

The old man was already in the greenhouse.

He was sitting in the metal chair with a blanket over his knees, and he did not look surprised.

"You didn't ask him," he said.

"I asked. He said after December first."

"And you stayed to hear it?"

"I stayed longer than that," I said.

He studied my face and then looked away, politely.

"I see."

"He left his phone behind."

I put it on the table.

"Lydia Penrose texted him that his cousin has taken care of the lab for a test on the thirtieth. I don't know what test."

His hands tightened on the blanket.

"Lydia," he said quietly. "She's back."

"You know her?"

"I met her in my waiting room, eleven years ago. She held that boy's hand through every round."

"Which round?"

He did not answer.

Instead he reached under the blanket and drew out a thick brown envelope, soft with age.

"I'm dying, Dr. Sherman," he said. "Pancreas. I have a few months."

He looked at the envelope.

"I've spent forty years keeping this family's secrets, and I'm tired."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm only sorry I waited."

He held the envelope out.

"This is my own copy, not the hospital's. I kept it for the day someone came who had the right to read it."

I took it.

It was heavy.

"I'm giving it to a physician who is also his wife," he said. "Whatever the law says, I'll answer for it."

I sat in the second chair and opened the clasp.

The first page was an intake form from eleven years ago.

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