That swing set was still back there, weeds growing out of the little ditch I’d created from kicking myself higher as a little kid.
I remembered Dad bringing home the kit from Toys “R” Us and building it in the backyard with a neighbor.
He’d insisted on swinging on it first to test it, and the thing damn near broke.
The sky was gray and low and full of rain but not yet raining.
I hung up when I got Augustus’s voice mail and then put the phone down in the dirt beside me and kept looking at the swing set,
thinking that I would give up all the sick days I had left for a few healthy ones.
I tried to tell myself that it could be worse, that the world was not a wish-granting factory,
that I was living with cancer not dying of it, that I mustn’t let it kill me before it kills me,
and then I just started muttering stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid over and over again until the sound unhinged from its meaning.
I was still saying it when he called back. “Hi,” I said. “Hazel Grace,” he said.
“Hi,” I said again. “Are you crying, Hazel Grace?” “Kind of?”
“Why?” he asked. “’Cause I’m just—I want to go to Amsterdam, and I want him to tell me what happens after the book is over,
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