ELLA

The words do not make sense at first.

They float through the air like pieces of a sentence that were never meant to belong together and my mind keeps trying to arrange them into something harmless, something ordinary, something that does not make the ground tilt beneath my feet.

Terminally ill.

I stare at the doctor as if he just spoke a language I do not understand and the hallway suddenly feels too bright and too loud and too crowded.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice ...