leaving me with lungs that suck at being lungs but could, conceivably, struggle along indefinitely
with the assistance of drizzled oxygen and daily Phalanxifor.
Admittedly, my Cancer Miracle had only resulted in a bit of purchased time. (I did not yet know the size of the bit.)
But when telling Augustus Waters, I painted the rosiest possible picture, embellishing the miraculousness of the miracle.
“So now you gotta go back to school,” he said. “I actually can’t,” I explained, “because I already got my GED.
So I’m taking classes at MCC,” which was our community college. “A college girl,” he said, nodding.
“That explains the aura of sophistication.” He smirked at me. I shoved his upper arm playfully.
I could feel the muscle right beneath the skin, all tense and amazing.
We made a wheels-screeching turn into a subdivision with eight-foot-high stucco walls.
His house was the first one on the left. A two-story colonial. We jerked to a halt in his driveway. I followed him inside.
A wooden plaque in the entryway was engraved in cursive with the words Home Is Where the Heart Is,
and the entire house turned out to be festooned in such observations.
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