“I’m seventeen. I had a little touch of osteosarcoma a year and a half ago,
but I’m just here today at Isaac’s request.” “And how are you feeling?” asked Patrick.
“Oh, I’m grand.” Augustus Waters smiled with a corner of his mouth.
“I’m on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend.” When it was my turn, I said,
“My name is Hazel. I’m sixteen. Thyroid with mets in my lungs. I’m okay.”
The hour proceeded apace: Fights were recounted, battles won amid wars sure to be lost;
hope was clung to; families were both celebrated and denounced;
it was agreed that friends just didn’t get it; tears were shed; comfort proffered.
Neither Augustus Waters nor I spoke again until Patrick said,
“Augustus, perhaps you’d like to share your fears with the group.”
“My fears?” “Yes.” “I fear oblivion,” he said without a moment’s pause.
“I fear it like the proverbial blind man who’s afraid of the dark.”
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