After Colby leaves, I wearily drag myself upstairs to shower and redress. All of his questions were finally answered, but none of mine were. Of course not. I’ll probably go to the grave never understanding why the men in my life think of me as nothing more than collateral.

Dropping my clothes in the hamper near in my closet, I pad into the connecting bathroom. As the water’s heating, I step on the scale and frown at the number. It’s no wonder my clothes are falling off me. Even I didn’t realize I’ve lost this much weight.

I’ve always been tall and voluptuous, with a body I was more comfortable hiding even before I was taken in the middle of the night to pay off a drug debt I wasn’t responsible for. Let’s face it. I was stacked at sixteen with oversized curves that didn’t go unnoticed in the tiny South Carolina town filled with addicts where I was raised. Men had been making passes at me since I was thirteen. Puberty wasn’t kind to me. It just gave license to the assholes who thought it was entirely acceptable to shove me into dark corners to cop a quick feel.

Yet another reason I hate the dark.

It takes a certain kind of immorality to agree to sell your daughter to monsters for a drug habit you can no longer control. I just wish I’d had the chance to do to my family what Holly had done to hers…but still. At least mine are no longer alive, unlike Ali’s father, who was one of the people who kept us locked in the shipping container for sale. I don’t have to be wary about listening to the news updates on his sentence since Judge McDonald, who passed down his conviction, was appointed to the United States Supreme Court.

It’s cold and heartless, but not everyone’s redeemable. And not everyone’s parents sold them for their next hit. It’s not everyone who’s taken from the comfort of their bed and the safety of their home and told they’d be better off if they were sold by the pound, only to be thrown into a putrid shipping container in the middle of the night.

I can only hope my parents are rotting in the ninth circle of hell—treachery. I hope they’re so far from light and heat, they’re nothing.

After all, that’s what they allowed men to make me feel like I was worth—nothing.

Even as the warm water cascades over my skin, I feel goose bumps prickle up. Breathe in, let it out, I tell myself. Remember, you had Ali and Holly. And later, Phil, Cass, and Em. Who knows what the other girls in that container went back to?

Not for the first time since I was told I have a brain tumor do I think it’s my penance for being gifted a second chance. A chance to be Corinna Freeman, not Elena Baxter. A chance to live and make my simple dreams come true. Not a life forced upon me by men who think they have the right to exert their control over me.

Once Colby was out of my life, yes, I mourned his betrayal of our friendship and that final loss of my innocence. I remember Ali and Holly being in class when I sat on my bed eating Oreos and crying. I came to some hard conclusions. There’s no such thing as a knight in shining armor. No man’s going to pick you up when you fall. The sweet lies they whisper out of one side of their mouth are followed by the laughing, bitter truth from the other. I realized I’d better figure out how I was going to save myself because no one else was going to. That’s reality.

I locked up my heart, except for those I already pledged my allegiance to: my family. I began to treat men precisely like they treated me, like junk food. Tasty for a little while, but overall, not worth the effort. Just like that package of Oreos I had been eating. Both my heart and the cookies were thrown in the trash.

Stepping from the shower, I braid my unruly mass of hair. I don’t have the time or the energy to blow it out today. I needed what little I used for the confrontation with Colby today for something else. Noticing the time, I pick up my pace a little. I quickly swipe on bronzer for a bit of color on my pale cheeks and spritz on some perfume before I leave the bathroom to find something to wear.

I’m not working this morning. I have to be at Greenwich Hospital in a few hours to find out my fate.

Why are hospitals always so damn cold?

I’m so glad I remembered to bring a thin sweatshirt with me. Quickly, I untie it from around my waist and slip it on. Wrapping my arms around myself, I can’t seem to shake the chill I feel permeating my bones. We pass clusters of exam rooms, and I realize I should have dried my hair. Because that’s what should be forefront on my mind right now, I berate myself.

Coming to the end of a long corridor, the nurse gives me a sympathetic smile and gestures me inside an office. “Dr. Braddock will be with you in just a few moments. Please feel free to take a seat on the couch.”

I smile, but it’s weak at best. I nod before the door closes behind me, trying to remember everything Bryan had told me about Dr. Derek Braddock other than he’s an exceptional surgeon. He would have been a shoo-in for the position of the head of neurology, but he’s decided to retire soon. Dr. Braddock also said throwing his support behind Bryan would be a better strategic move for the department long-term. Bryan likes him, and until he takes over as the head of neurology and neurosurgery in the next few weeks, Dr. Braddock is officially my doctor of record with Bryan consulting.

The phone on the desk rings, jarring me from my thoughts. It’s a good thing the phone startled me because when the door suddenly opens behind me, I jump a good three feet. I’m positive I would have shot straight through the ceiling otherwise.

“Excuse me, Miss Freeman. I have to take that call. Dr. Moser is absurdly punctual.” Dr. Braddock, I presume, strides over to his desk. Punching a button, he answers, “Braddock.”

“Derek.” I hear Bryan’s voice come through the line. Something in me both relaxes because he hasn’t left me to handle this alone, yet tightens in awareness because he’s on the line. “Is Corinna there?”

“Yes, and I just got into the room. I haven’t even had a chance to introduce myself,” Braddock gripes.

“Not my fault you’re running late with patients.” There’s humor in Bryan’s voice.

“Not yet it isn’t,” he retorts.

I’m listening to the byplay, but I still haven’t made a move since I initially jumped away from the door. I’m frozen by my own reality in the well-appointed room intended to relax people like me, but doing little to actually help.

“Corinna, are you there?” Bryan’s concern can be heard through the speaker.

I turn toward Dr. Braddock. I don’t know what he sees on my face, but his older one turns compassionate. “She’s here, Bryan. And she’s bracing for whatever you’re about to tell her.”

“You don’t know yet?” I whisper. The first words I’ve spoken since he walked in his office.

Dr. Braddock’s face softens further. He approaches me slowly. “No? Corinna…do you mind if I call you Corinna as well?” I shake my head no.

Dr. Braddock moves toward me like I’ll bolt at any second, and I just might. “I don’t. Even though I’m your official doctor and could have looked, Bryan—Dr. Moser—asked as a professional courtesy that I wait until we could do this together.” He gestures to the leather chair next to his impressive desk , where behind it on a wall are impressive degrees. “Please, come and sit down.”

Bryan’s voice comes through the speaker. “Cori, we already have a plan of action. All these test results are going to tell us is the timeline. Right?”

I respond, “Right.” Bryan’s words should comfort me, but all they do is raise my anxiety levels to an all-time high.

There’s so much I want to do in this life. It’s so easy to push things off until later because nothing ever changes. The past, the present, the future, happiness, mistakes, apologies, love— everything I need to do converges together and slams into me, hitting me so fast. Later is now, and I don’t have more chances. My head is spinning at the overwhelming sensation while Bryan and Dr. Braddock are talking briefly.

Suddenly, the silence in the room permeates through the fog surrounding me. I find myself pulled back in when I’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“Just tell me.” I already know. In my heart, I’ve known since I almost fainted in the kitchen at Amaryllis the other day.

Dr. Braddock sinks to one knee in front of me and grips my clenched fists, while Bryan delivers the blow from his office in Baltimore.

“The tumor’s grown. It’s starting to push against your internal cranial arteries, or ICAs. We have to schedule surgery.” His deep voice is direct and blunt when he delivers the kill shot.

And as the first tear falls down my cheek, I wonder how I’m able to breathe.