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isn’t going to happen, okay?”
    The doctor nodded as genuine relief spread across his face. “I wholeheartedly agree. You’re a fighter, Heather. And this disease is highly curable.” Pausing to shuffle through some papers on his desk, he quickly turned to his laptop. “I’ll see about an opening for your first round of treatment.”
    Treatment? The word stopped her heart. She was well acquainted with the word and what it entailed—a combination of chemo and radiation. Her mom had endured the effects nobly, and according to her doctors it had extended her life a few months. But from what Heather had witnessed, the results had been dubious at best as her mother’s quality of life dropped drastically. “Uh, no . . . I’m not interested in nuking my insides.”
    His look of astonishment was off-putting. “Well, let’s talk about survival rates—”
    “My mother was promised four more years.”
    “Your mother’s cancer was quite different from yours. And she was twice your age.” He drew a long breath, holding her gaze. “Why don’t we set a time to discuss this further . . . perhaps after you’ve slept on it?”
    I’m supposed to sleep?
    “I don’t think you understand, Doctor. I watched my mom die. I’m not sure what killed her, the cancer or the treatments.”
    He flinched at her comment. “Heather, I urge you to take some time to think about this. Without treatment the disease will progress . . . and you’ll become very sick. Eventually it will take your life.” He paused, his eyes small slits. “Of course, if you’re worried about fertility, most centers offer some preservation procedures.”
    She reached for her purse and slung it over her shoulder. As she got up, the floor seemed to slip from beneath her, and she leaned down to grip the chair to steady herself.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine.” She forced a smile.
    Perfectly fine.
    “You’re strong, Heather . . . and in otherwise good health,” the doctor emphasized. “Every patient responds differently—there’s no guarantee you would react to radiation the way your mother did.”
    There’s no guarantee I’ll be cured, either.
    “Thanks anyway.” I’d rather not die before I’m dead.
    She didn’t bother to pull the door shut behind her. Let him get up from beside his high and mighty desk and close it himself.
    What must it be like playing God? The thought lingered as she hurried past the receptionist’s desk where she’d made her co-pay.
    They should be paying me ! Glancing up at the clock, Heather was suddenly unable to suppress the lump in her throat. Overwhelmed, she pushed open the door, helpless to stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.

    “Why, sure, we stock a large variety of herbs to help with digestion,” Grace told her customer. She led the woman to the tonics and tea section of the store. “Here’s what we have.” She reached for a popular herbal combination. “This one has a nice blend of herbs . . . it’s helped lots of folk.”
    “Is this something you drink?” The woman turned the package over in her hands.
    “Oh jah, and real tasty, too, I’m told. You can mix it with any kind of juice.”
    The dark-eyed woman took a moment to read the ingredients and compare the first suggestion to several other options, including bitter orange tea leaves. “Have you ever tried this?” she asked. Then, sputtering, she retracted her question. “Oh, well, I doubt you have stomach upsets.”
    Grace hardly knew what to say. There had been several times recently when she’d experienced queasiness, but it had nothing to do with indigestion. “You might want to just try one of these and see how it works for you.”
    The woman’s face creased with uncertainty. “It’s hard to decide.”
    “You’re welcome to try one, and if it doesn’t help, bring it back,” Grace offered.
    “Fair enough.” The woman followed her to the cash register.
    “Remember, if you have any questions at all, just ask. If I