He nodded toward the boy, who now had a name. “So, yeah,” Isaac continued.
He was looking at his hands, which he’d folded into each other like the top of a tepee.
“There’s nothing you can do about it.” “We’re here for you, Isaac,” Patrick said.
“Let Isaac hear it, guys.” And then we all, in a monotone, said, “We’re here for you, Isaac.”
Michael was next. He was twelve. He had leukemia. He’d always had leukemia.
He was okay. (Or so he said. He’d taken the elevator.)
Lida was sixteen, and pretty enough to be the object of the hot boy’s eye.
She was a regular—in a long remission from appendiceal cancer, which I had not previously known existed.
She said—as she had every other time I’d attended Support Group—that she felt strong,
which felt like bragging to me as the oxygen-drizzling nubs tickled my nostrils.
There were five others before they got to him. He smiled a little when his turn came.
His voice was low, smoky, and dead sexy. “My name is Augustus Waters,” he said.
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