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Ben leaned his head against the white-tiled shower wall. He steadied himself against the wall and tried to take deep breaths, then rested his swollen left foot on the shower’s bottom edge, propped his forehead against the wall’s cool white, and focused his breathing to stem the nausea. The scented soap fell from his hand and clattered to a halt next to the drain.

From beyond the plastic curtain of seashells and sea horses, the radio announced, “…the forecast for today is fair and warm. Temperatures will be in the low seventies…”

Fair? Fair? What’s Fair? Is pancreatic cancer fair? Is chemo-fucking-poison fair?

Ben slumped into the tiled corner, letting the warm water rain on his thinning hair, draining down his face and neck onto his bloated belly and yellow, wasted limbs.

A soft pounding on the bathroom door roused him.

“Dad-dee, Dad-dee I gotta’ go pee.”

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