Page 131 of Break Me

Problems have solutions.

“We need to get another opinion.” The words leave my mouth before I realize I'm saying them. “Maybe on the West Coast. Hell, we’ll go to Europe if that’s what it takes.”

The phone nearly slips from my hand as I pull it from my pocket. My fingers aren't steady anymore. It doesn't matter, I open the web browser and start searching. The words come faster than I can think.

Advanced ovarian cancer.

Stage IV treatment.

Aggressive surgery.

Every search seems determined to tell me how this ends. I skip the survival statistics. Skip the word incurable. Skip anything that sounds like someone’s already decided.

I'm not looking for averages.

I'm looking for the one person who beat them.

Raven will be that person.

She has to be.

A surgeon in California finally catches my attention, someone known for treating advanced cases that other doctors won't touch. I punch in his number, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

My message is calm, almost detached, as I explain who Raven is and why we need help. Before the call has even ended, I'm forwarding every report, every scan, and every pathology result to the email address on the website.

We'll fly across the country if that's what it takes.

We'll sell the cottage.

Sell everything.

There isn't a single thing I own that's worth more than her life.

The confirmation email disappears into my sent folder. Only then do I lean back against the workbench and drag a hand over my face. The garage is quiet again, except for the hum of the lights overhead.

Footsteps scrape against gravel outside seconds before the garage door lifts halfway. Mouse ducks beneath it, his gaze sweeping over the room. The helmet lies against the far wall. Oil glistens across the concrete, tools are scattered where they fell, and the rolling cart is tipped onto its side.

His eyes finally settle on me. “What happened?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Because if I say it out loud, if I say cancer in this room, it becomes real. And I’m not ready for it to be real.

Mouse’s gaze shifts to my hand, already swelling.

“Wolf?”

I shake my head once.

Not now.

He studies me another second, then nods like he understands something I didn’t explain. “Whatever it is,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to handle it alone.”

The words land and slide off because this isn’t something anyone else can carry.

I bend down, pick up the helmet, brush the dust from it with my sleeve. The crack in the casing catches my thumb.