and every single person in the gate area turned squarely to me,
I saw Augustus fast-limping toward us with a McDonald’s bag in one hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Where were you?” I asked. “Line got superlong, sorry,” he said, offering me a hand up.
I took it, and we walked side by side to the gate to preboard.
I could feel everybody watching us, wondering what was wrong with us,
and whether it would kill us, and how heroic my mom must be, and everything else.
That was the worst part about having cancer, sometimes: The physical evidence of disease separates you from other people.
We were irreconcilably other, and never was it more obvious than when the three of us walked through the empty plane,
the stewardess nodding sympathetically and gesturing us toward our row in the distant back.
I sat in the middle of our three-person row with Augustus in the window seat and Mom in the aisle.
I felt a little hemmed in by Mom, so of course I scooted over toward Augustus. We were right behind the plane’s wing.
He opened up his bag and unwrapped his burger. “The thing about eggs, though,” he said,
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