The Wistful Petal
The doctor’s voice is a dry leaf skittering across linoleum when he tells you that the bone is wrong, that the marrow is screaming, that you are not simply hungry but hollowed out by a sickness that eats from the inside out. You sit on the plastic chair in the triage room of St. Jude’s Community Hospital, your knees drawn up to your chest, and you watch the fluorescent light flicker above the...
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