“The world,” he said, “is not a wish-granting factory,” and then he broke down, just for one moment,
his sob roaring impotent like a clap of thunder unaccompanied by lightning,
the terrible ferocity that amateurs in the field of suffering might mistake for weakness.
Then he pulled me to him and, his face inches from mine, resolved, “I’ll fight it. I’ll fight it for you.
Don’t you worry about me, Hazel Grace. I’m okay. I’ll find a way to hang around and annoy you for a long time.”
I was crying. But even then he was strong, holding me tight so that I could see the sinewy muscles of his arms wrapped around me as he said,
“I’m sorry. You’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. I promise,” and smiled his crooked smile.
He kissed my forehead, and then I felt his powerful chest deflate just a little. “I guess I had a hamartia after all.”
After a while, I pulled him over to the bed and we lay there together as he told me they’d started palliative chemo,
but he gave it up to go to Amsterdam, even though his parents were furious.
They’d tried to stop him right up until that morning, when I heard him screaming that his body belonged to him.
“We could have rescheduled,” I said. “No, we couldn’t have,” he answered. “Anyway, it wasn’t working.
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