Chapter 12: Rowan's Doctor

Rowan's POV

My doctor's office was on the eleventh floor of a building I had never put my name on.

I had been coming here for four years, every ninety days, and I knew the carpet.

The doctor was a tall woman with gray hair and reading glasses on a cord.

She was already sitting down when I came in.

"Mr. Ashcroft," she said. "You're early. You're also not on the schedule."

"I need five minutes."

"You have fifteen. Sit."

I sat.

I had worked out what to say in the car, and none of it was in my mouth now.

"Four years ago I was told I couldn't have children," I said. "I was thirty-one."

"I remember."

"Could that be wrong?"

She took off her glasses.

She had told me the first time in this room, with the same kind, steady face.

I had been in a paper gown with a drain in my side.

The damage was on both sides, after the surgery and two rounds of chemo.

The count was zero, and every sample since had been the same.

"What's happened?" she said.

"Nothing. I'm asking a question."

"All right." She folded her hands. "Cancer treatment is the most reliable way I know to end fertility."

"I know."

"It's not a perfect one. I told you then that the odds were extremely low."

"You said almost none."

"I said almost none. Almost isn't a word I chose by accident."

My throat was dry.

"Some men recover," she said. "It can take years. It's rare."

"I haven't."

"Not in four years of follow-up. But the chances were never zero, Rowan. I wouldn't have said they were."

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